


things that involve steve rogers

by allaboutsteverogers



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Awesome Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes as Captain America, Hurt Steve Rogers, Joseph Rogers Kinda Sucks, Kid Steve Rogers, Protective Bucky Barnes, Protective Team, Steve Rogers & Everyone - Freeform, Steve Rogers Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Steve Rogers Feels, Steve Rogers Is Sixteen, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Steve Rogers as the Winter Soldier, Steve Rogers is a Stark, Steve Rogers whump, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:18:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 31
Words: 38,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22070140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allaboutsteverogers/pseuds/allaboutsteverogers
Summary: A dumping ground for fics where Steve Rogers is the subject. Some of these might be parts of longer fics.(At this point just assume that Steve is 16 in all of these, or don't, it doesn't make much of a difference anyway)CC very much welcome and appreciated.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers & Avengers Team, Steve Rogers & Natasha Romanov, Steve Rogers & Tony Stark
Comments: 201
Kudos: 283





	1. (16) school

Of course Tony noticed when Steve couldn’t follow their conversations. He did it all the time – furrowed brow, gnawing on his bottom lip, bright blue eyes darting from speaker to speaker or running over sentences again and again. Tony had assumed it was an adjusting-to-the-future thing. In his defence, whenever Steve made that face with Tony, it was because he’d made some pop culture reference or was spouting some technobabble about things no one but himself had a hope of understanding. And, in the spirit of honesty, a lot of what he said to Steve was designed to confuse him. It was funny and it was harmless. Most of the time Steve didn’t seem to mind it, either, beyond a cursory eye roll or dirty look. 

Now, what Tony couldn’t understand were the times when he was actively trying to make sure Steve could understand him, and Steve still made that confused face. 

“It’s, a…it’s an element in the periodic table. And sometimes it’ll blow up. Usually it’ll blow up. So if you add it to this other thing, which also likes to explode, you get double explodingness. Explodingness squared.” Tony looked at Steve, who had the full furrowed brow and biting lip while he scanned through the debriefing packet. “You still with me, Cap?”

“Can’t say that I am. What was this you said about the periodic table?”

Tony stared at him. “Excuse me?”

Steve’s shoulders went up defensively, and he met Tony’s gaze with no small amount of defiance. “Yes?”

“The periodic table? The periodic table? How do you – ?” He flailed his arms a little and moved to stand at Steve’s other side, just to have something to do. “That’s elementary school stuff!”

Steve scowled at him.

“Oh, knock it off, Stark,” Barton called from at the head of the table. “I failed chem too. Why would we even need to know any of this stuff when we’ve got Doc over here?” He gestured at Bruce, who sighed.

“I think you’re forgetting me, too,” Tony sniffed. “I could’ve done a triple masters in chemistry too but – ”

Romanoff rolled her eyes. “The debriefing, Stark. Some of us have better things to do.”

“Implying that anyone has better things to do than listen to me talk about myself?”

“I’m not implying anything. I’m stating it outright. Get on with it.”

“Fine, whatever.” All of a sudden Tony remembered what got him side-tracked in the first place. “You!”

Steve stared at him, unimpressed.

“You don’t know what the periodic table is!”

“I got that, thanks,” Steve said.

“Even though that’s an elementary school thing! We even have a song for it!”

“We do?” Barton said.

Steve sighed, and closed the debriefing folder, bowing under the weight of Stark annoyance. “Maybe it’s because I didn’t go to school.”

That was enough to shock even Tony into silence, though only for a second. Then all hell broke loose.

“You what?” Tony demanded, leaping up from his seat. “How –? You –?”

“Oh, be quiet, Tony,” Natasha said. “It really isn’t that big of a deal.” 

“Yeah,” Barton echoed, just to be a suck-up. “Not a big deal at all. Did you really not go to school at all?”

“I’ve had some lessons here and there,” Steve said, shifting uneasily in his seat. “It was the Great Depression, it wasn’t like we had the time or the money to – I don’t know, learn about the periodic table or whatever.”

“But – ” Tony flailed his arms, and Steve hunched lower in his seat. “But –“ 

“What Tony means,” Bruce cut in. “Is that we didn’t expect someone as smart as you are to have never been to school before. And that we’re sorry for not realising earlier.”

Romanoff, Barton, Bruce, and Thor (though Tony wasn’t really sure if Thor was really following the conversation at this point) nodded their assent. Steve flushed, shoulders coming up to his ears in the way he did whenever he was embarrassed. 

“I’m not that smart,” he mumbled. “But thank you anyway, Doctor. Nat, Clint, Thor.”

“I disagree,” Thor interrupted. “Our missions are only successes because of your planning and leadership. And as our strategiser, you have never led us astray.”  
Steve shrugged in the way that he did before he was going to be modest.

“He’s right, Cap,” Barton said. “None of us should be judging you on your schooling – or lack thereof. We of all people should know that school doesn’t really determine how smart someone is, or how far they’ll go in life.”

“Clint and I didn’t really do a whole lot of school,” Romanoff said. “Tony, Bruce, and Thor did, but we’re all on the same team. Especially given your circumstances, it really isn’t anything you should be embarrassed about.” She shot a dark look Tony’s way. “Or made to feel embarrassed about.”

“I didn’t say that he had to be embarrassed about it!” Tony protested.

“Yeah, you just made him feel bad for something he couldn’t control,” Romanoff shot back.

“I’m right here, you know?” Steve said.

“Okay, fine, I may have overreacted a bit,” Tony admitted. “I thought all Boy Scouts went to school – ow!” 

“Shut up, Stark,” Romanoff said.

“Okay, okay,” Tony glanced at Steve, who’d once again transferred his attention to the debriefing packet. “I’m – it’s okay that you – I mean – ” 

“It’s fine, Tony,” Steve said, looking up from beneath his lashes to give Tony an amused look. “I guess I just have a lot to catch up on.”

Tony dropped back into his chair with a huff. “First grade’s too easy for you, anyway,” he grumbled, and Steve laughed like he knew everything that Tony wasn’t saying.

*

A few days later, Steve returned from a solo mission to find a brand new bookcase in his room. It stretched from floor to ceiling and was packed full of books about everything from world history to human anatomy, arranged in order of difficulty. There wasn’t a note, but there wasn’t any doubt as to who it was from. Steve picked up a children’s book about the elements of the periodic table, and reminded himself to send a thank-you note soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please give CC if you are so inclined! i'm trying very hard to get better as a writer and every piece of CC helps.


	2. (16) languages

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> steve speaks a bunch of languages. originally this was supposed to be a part of a "steve is 16" fic that i had in mind.

Steve Rogers had grown up speaking Irish. Most of the other Irish kids didn’t – their parents usually wanted them to become as American as American could be, so that no bigot could tell ‘em that they weren’t wanted in this land of the free. Sarah Rogers was different. She was as Irish as they come, and damn proud of that fact, too. Of course, she was careful, and Steve knew never to speak Irish outside of their homes. But she didn’t want Steve growing up without knowing his roots, and so she spoke to him in their language, and she told him the stories of the fae and how to avoid offending them, the memories she had of growing up among lush green fields and with the grandparents Steve would never meet. When the cranky old Irishman Steve visited sometimes to deliver his mama’s food to drank a few too many, he’d teach Steve the words in Irish that his mama wouldn’t, much to Bucky’s delight.

It only grew from there. They grew up in the neighbourhoods for the rejects, and that meant that Steve got to pick up many, many more languages than his mama thought appropriate: a little Russian, French, some Italian, Spanish, Polish, some Yiddish, even Japanese, before his next-door neighbours got carted away after Pearl Harbour. Bucky never developed such an affinity (or interest) in languages like Steve did, beyond a couple of phrases in French to drawl in his smooth, deep voice for the benefit of some poor unsuspecting dame. 

Steve had never been close-mouthed about his heritage or where he grew up, so it always came as a surprise when people assumed that he only spoke English. The first time it happened, he’d passed two USO girls who’d remarked, in Italian, on his bone structure. Forgetting that they didn’t know he spoke Italian, he’d thanked them, flustered, and damn near made the poor girls cry. Steve still thought of that moment on occasion and felt bad. 

After that, it was during their tour of Allied camps in Europe, where they also liked to parade Steve out in full Captain America regalia to hand out food and supplies and hold babies, most likely as a way to ensure that the villages knew to thank America most of all. Steve didn’t really care why the army did it; at least this way he was actually doing something. The looks on people’s faces when they realised that Captain America could speak their language was something unparalleled. And with the serum helping him cheat, Steve managed to get a hell of a lot better in a hell of a lot more languages than he’d ever thought he could master (though he never quite managed to be able to figure out how to react to the girls who liked to compliment him to make him blush).

And it turned out that knowing a whole bunch of languages wasn’t just good for making people smile. When Steve approached the men who would soon become known as The Howling Commandos, he did so in their language, out of respect – maybe a mistake, seeing as Jacques Dernier fell off his chair the first time he heard Steve speak French. As did Jim Morita with Steve’s Japanese (a little flattering, since Steve had been pretty sure his Japanese was rusty after a year of disuse). 

Bucky had come with him while Steve trotted around camp collecting his men, obviously the first person that Steve had asked to be a part of this new team. Once everyone was accounted for and Steve could breathe a sigh of relief, Bucky squinted at him. 

“You’re better at French now,” he accused. Steve grinned sheepishly.

“It’s the serum,” he said. 

Bucky shook his head. “Nah, pal, that’s all you. I was just surprised, is all. Never heard you talk like that in French.”

“You wouldn’t know the difference between French and Russian if the Tsar himself were speaking,” Steve said. Bucky shoved him, laughing, and that was the end of that.

Opening his eyes in the 21st century, Steve’s first thought was that he should’ve never woken up. SHIELD wasn’t too sympathetic, though; this new world had had 70 years to cope with the losses of everything that Steve had ever known. Everyone knew to feel bad for him, but only in a perfunctory, detached manner. It was like people forgot that behind the Captain and the soldier and the legend was a person.

It took several escapes and a whole lot of yelling before SHIELD gave him official permission to get taken out on walks like a dog. It was a lot easier than escaping from the SHIELD bases, but far more humiliating. Agent Coulson had been put in charge of the field trips, and though Steve knew not to shoot the messenger, he couldn’t help the Pavlovian annoyance he felt every time he saw the older man.

But it wasn’t all bad. Agent had taken Steve to Times Square, a month or so after the original debacle. Now that he wasn’t two seconds away from completely losing his mind, Steve noticed the cacophony of languages all around him. He listened in wonder to all the languages, some that he had never heard of before. The world had changed, as people never failed to remind him, and Steve couldn’t help but notice. 

“ _Look at the blond one!_ ” A giggling French girl whispered to her friend. “ _Oh, I would just love to –_ ”

Steve looked away so quickly his might’ve sprained his neck. Agent Coulson looked over at him, pausing in his tour guide-esque explanation of something Steve couldn’t even begin to understand.

“Do you speak French, Captain?” He asked.

“A little,” Steve said vaguely. He was young but he wasn’t stupid. There was no such thing as innocuous questions with shady spy organisations. A brief thought crossed his mind, that maybe in this new century he could really brush up on some of the languages he knew, maybe pick up a couple more. It was fun, and at least gave him something to do.

Then aliens attacked and Steve put all thoughts of language learning out of his head.

Now, Steve drummed his fingers against the table and tried very hard not to lose his temper. _The Avengers._ An impressive name for what was frankly a mess of a team. Besides the alien invasion, they’d had only a few minor missions to ‘build team spirit’, and all had ended poorly, especially if Steve weren’t there to wrangle them into order. 

Most of the time, though, no one on planet Earth could even hope to get the Avengers to even a functional level. Case in point: this meeting. 

It was one that everyone but Steve went on, so frankly Steve didn’t even know what he was doing there. Even more frustrating was that even though Steve hadn’t even been on that mission and therefore didn’t deserve to be subject to Fury’s rants like this, everyone who _did_ deserve it weren’t even paying attention! 

Tony was fiddling around with his Starkphone like people couldn’t see that he was clearly looking at something under the table. Bruce and Thor might’ve ascended to an astral plane of existence. And Black Widow and Clint were having a full-on conversation in Russian about _soup_.

“ _Yeah, except for the fact that you can taste mushrooms in mushroom soup,_ ” Clint was saying.

“ _That’s the point, dumbass._ ”

“ _I believe you have forgotten the crucial detail that mushrooms suck –_ ”

“ _Can you both please just pay attention?_ ” Steve snapped. The two assassins froze. Clint’s eyes were wide, and even Black Widow’s impeccable poker face had slipped a little.

“What’s going on?” Bruce asked no one. 

“Wait a second, you can speak Russian?” Tony demanded, suddenly interested.

Steve ignored him. “Director,” he prompted. Fury cleared his throat, apparently unfazed save for the tell-tale lift of his eyebrows, and resumed his verbal lashings. After a few moments, Tony slid a scrap of paper Steve’s way. On it, he’d scrawled in barely legible handwriting: How come no one knew Mr Brawn over here could speak Russian?

Steve resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Just for a second, he really, really wanted Bucky there. Then Steve pushed back that feeling before it overwhelmed him, and wrote back: There’s a lot that you don’t know about me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> do leave CC if you can! i'm trying to improve as a writer and every piece of CC helps.


	3. (16) shadow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was also supposed to be part of the 'steve is 16' fics

Sam first noticed Steve’s shadow about six months after the whole Winter Soldier debacle. He’d stuck close ever since finding out Captain America’s true age, a ridiculous, frustrating, absurd sixteen years old, unwilling to leave a child alone to mope about his brainwashed ex-best friend. And mope he did. Sam really couldn’t blame him; a little bit of moping after attempted murder was really the most normal thing that had happened to Sam since Captain America and the Black Widow had shown up at his doorstep. Still, it broke his heart in several different ways to see Captain America, to see a kid be betrayed in so many different ways and still try to be strong. Sam didn’t really know how much good he was doing but it had to be better than nothing. He had his doubts, especially when faced with a living legend, but then Steve would grin at him or something and Sam would know that he could never just walk away.

Grocery stores were one of those things that still overwhelmed the sixteen year old, and since started their hunt for Bucky Barnes Sam had taken it upon himself to act as Steve’s grocery store bodyguard. His duties involved mostly distracting Steve from the vast amounts of food that were now available, the inflated prices of everything, and the apparent differences in Spam since the 1940s. 

It was in a grocery store in northern Italy that Sam first noticed Steve’s shadow. Steve was preoccupied with either enthusing about the availability of chicken versus continuing to look for Barnes without any consideration for food. Maybe it was the chicken that had distracted Steve so thoroughly, or maybe it was the exhaustion. Regardless, he didn’t notice the long-haired scary assassin staring directly at him from a café across the street. He did scare the absolute shit out of Sam, though, and he instinctively reached for Steve, to pull the younger boy behind him. 

“Sam?” Steve asked, suddenly alert. Sam glanced around, but Barnes had vanished. That probably should have worried Sam more than it did, but before instinct had taken over he’d noticed the look on Barnes’ face. That wasn’t the look of someone plotting a murder. It was the kind of look that he’d seen in so many of the veterans coming into the VA – trepidation, self-loathing, confusion, resignation. And none of that was good, but it was a hell of a lot better than the blankness of the Winter Soldier.

“Sam,” Steve said, more insistently this time. Sam shook himself out of it, and tried to smile reassuringly at Steve.

“Nothing,” he said. “Just thought I saw something.”

Steve squinted at him suspiciously, far more perceptive than people often gave him credit for. Sam nudged him with his shoulder and turned back to the chicken.  
“Which one were you looking at again? Let me tell you, my grandma has the best recipe ever for chicken parm, you’re going to love it…”

*

Steve wouldn’t stop glancing around the store almost compulsively, searching for something. 

“Stop moving,” Natasha chided, holding up a blue button up to Steve’s chest. He froze obediently, but his eyes flicked past the men’s wear, the shoes, and then back again. “Steve.”

He blinked down at her, brow furrowed unhappily. “Sorry. I just…” He lowered his voice in an attempt to be inconspicuous, as if Steve Rogers could ever be inconspicuous. “I feel like someone’s watching me.”

“Really,” Natasha said, deliberately not looking at the man wearing horribly baggy clothing who’d prowled by them at least a dozen times by now, almost unaware that he was doing it. It was a little weird – the elusive, master assassin the Winter Soldier, taken off guard by a sixteen year old kid. It might be a little embarrassing, actually, at how obvious the two of them were. 

“Call me crazy,” Steve smiled, two little spots of colour emerging on his cheekbones. “But I just feel like he’s close by. I don’t know. It’s probably nothing.”

Natasha hummed, draping the shirt (a perfect match for his eyes) over her arm and holding up another one, this one a dark olive colour. “Could be,” she said. Steve sighed, and let her continue to dress him up like a doll. 

*

It had taken a hell of a lot of convincing, and for SHIELD itself to burn to the ground, before Steve agreed to move into Avengers tower. Tony hadn’t counted on two additional guests.

Sam Wilson was all right, and mostly only stayed for a few days every so often because of VA loyalties back in Washington. Tony didn’t mind him at all. The other guy, though…

“Sir, there’s been a breach on Captain Rogers’ floor, at his bedroom window,” JARVIS said.

Tony groaned, and kicked his spinny chair away from his desk.

“Cap’s on the sixty first floor, how is that even possible?”

“They appear to be suction pads,” JARVIS supplied helpfully. “Should I engage deterrent measures?”

“Not allowed, Murderbot’s Cap’s friend.” Tony scowled, not at all pleased with the idea of having some Soviet killer on the loose at his tower. “He does know that Cap’s looking for him, right? Jesus, he’s more hot-and-cold than my college girlfriend.”

“Which one?” JARVIS said. Tony glared up at the ceiling, a force of habit that he’d unfortunately picked up from Captain We-Used-To-Use-Horse-Drawn-Carriages.

“Very funny, JARVIS,” he said. “Do you think Cap would get mad if I made a fake-Cap decoy and used that as bait for Murderbot?”

*

Thor was a little disappointed to notice that Steve wasn’t at breakfast. The two men (or, well, the demigod and the super-soldier) tended to be the earliest risers in the Tower, and often broke fast together. Thor found Steve great company and an excellent confidant, despite his young age. 

Without any company to break fast with, Thor contemplated simply trying out one of those coffee shops he’d heard Tony speak so highly of. The only problem was that Midgardian customs were strangely different from those on Asgard, and he had no interest in being arrested again.

Fortunately, right at that moment, Steve walked into the kitchen, a dark-haired man in tow.

“Oh! Good morning, Thor,” Steve said. The dark-haired man just glared, and smoothly slipped in between the two of them as a form of misguided protection. Thor considered taking offense at the fact that this stranger would imply that Thor would ever harm one of his own, till he recognised the stranger’s face.

“Ah! You have found your friend at last?” He asked, cheered up immensely by the tides of good fortune which had finally reached his Captain’s shores at last.

“He found me, more like,” Steve said, and glanced at his lost friend’s face with a pleased grin. His friend did not move much, save for the quick flick of his eyes to Steve’s face. Thor beamed.

“That is most excellent!” He said, and flung his hands and hammer out joyously. Steve's friend flinched, but stood his ground. “Would you not join me, then, in breaking fast? We may discover, as Tony says, the wonders of the coffee shop.”

Steve glanced at his friend, and his friend met his gaze, but not without casting one last suspicious look at Thor. After a moment of deliberation, Steve’s friend stepped back just a little, and Steve returned his gaze to Thor’s.

“That would be great, Thor,” he said. “We’d love to.”

*

Bruce wasn’t entirely sure how this happened, but ignoring the super assassin who never left Steve alone became surprisingly easy. The Sergeant never left Steve’s side, which Bruce could kind of understand. He’d noticed Barnes watching Steve, which could either be him tracking Steve’s every move or just being too afraid to take his eyes off of Steve lest he disappear. And anyway, Barnes mostly kept out of the way. Once you got the hang of ignoring the way he glared at everyone who wasn’t Steve, it wasn’t so bad.

“It’s all right, I can do mine,” Bruce said. Steve was in the midst of washing the dishes after one of their weekly Avengers movie nights. Avengers movie nights was one of those things that sounded like a horrible idea, but ended up being one of the best things they could’ve done. It was Steve’s idea, of course.

It had taken a pretty long time for Barnes to work up to participating in movie nights. Still, he never fully relaxed, and he always kept Steve close to his side, away from the rest of the Avengers. This was besides the point of the movie nights, but everyone wisely stayed silent. 

“I’m already doing the dishes, I don’t mind doing yours, too,” Steve smiled at Bruce, and tried to reach out a hand to take the mug from him. Barnes, stood as unmoveable as a boulder guarding Steve’s back, didn’t move. Steve shot him an exasperated look, but it was clear to anyone the fondness that coloured his every interaction with Barnes.

“It’s all right,” Bruce repeated. They’d all figured out pretty quickly that you couldn’t make Barnes do anything that he didn’t want to (unless maybe you were one Steve Rogers). Bruce leaned against the fridge to wait for Steve to finish up. It was a lot faster than trying to make Barnes give up protecting Steve’s six from whatever threat he thought there was.

It was kind of cute, in a way, Bruce thought. Because as much as the Avengers were a team, and were friends, Bruce knew there was a difference between having people you cared about versus your person. And if anyone deserved to have their person, it was Steve Rogers. Bruce would deal with as many brainwashed best friend assassins as needed. 

*

Sometimes, Steve couldn’t believe that this was his life now. He used to find himself bundled up in blankets and staring out one of the massive floor-to-ceiling windows on his floor in Avengers Tower, marvelling at the found family slumbering on the other floors of the tower and the city that he’d been lucky enough to come back to, and wonder how it all happened. When he’d signed up for the army, or even when he’d signed up for Project Rebirth, this hadn’t been what he’d expected. 

Back then, though, even as grateful as he was for this second chance, of sorts, even his happiest moments were tinged with a little bit of melancholy. Because he’d never imagined a future where he’d been frozen in ice and would wake up 70 years in the future, but he’d especially never imagined a future that didn’t have Bucky in it, too. At that time, he’d known that even if he hadn’t let Bucky fall, they still wouldn’t be together experiencing the future in the 2010s. 

But now…

Now, curled up on the floor in a pile of blankets and gazing out the windows, soaking up the wonderful in-floor heating, he could feel the weighted gaze of Bucky behind him. Bucky wasn’t the same man he was back in ’45, but then again, neither was Steve. He’d never imagined that he’d ever even get to see Bucky again; he would take any version of Bucky Barnes, any way he came.

“Do you want to sit with me?” Steve deliberately didn’t make a big fuss about it, barely even turning to acknowledge Bucky’s presence. Bucky startled easily, now, and anything Steve could do to make it better, he would. “It’s nice with the floor heating.”

For a moment he didn’t think Bucky would. On some bad nights, it was like he didn’t understand language at all, monitoring Steve from the shadows like he was afraid of the light. But tonight, after just a moment of hesitation, Bucky loped across the room and settled down beside him.

Steve offered him a corner of one of his blankets. Bucky took it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CC very much appreciated!


	4. 'it's midnight, where the hell were you?!'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt is "it's midnight, where the hell were you?!" that i got from here: https://justanotherrpmeme.tumblr.com/post/143510081968/rp-starters-concern
> 
> honestly, this prompt list took me like 20 minutes to find. wth.
> 
> oh, tw for mentions of abuse? but nothing explicit or descriptive. but tell me if you want me to edit the tags/warnings and i'll do it asap.

Steve squinted at the floorboards through the dim lighting, trying to find the one that always creaked. It was raised slightly at the edges, so it was always recognisable, but that was only when one could actually _see_ the floorboards. Steve hesitated, and then took a step.

No creak. Perfect.

Steve fished his keys out of his pocket and managed to open the door with minimal fumbling. If he was lucky, Bucky would've gone to bed already and --

"It's midnight, where the hell were you?"

Steve sighed internally, and swung the door open fully to accept his fate. Bucky stood in the middle of their living room, hair rumpled on one side like he'd fallen asleep on the couch waiting for Steve to come back. There was a twinge of guilt in his heart, but Steve shoved it down so it wouldn't show.

"Out. You shouldn't have waited up, Buck."

"Like hell I shouldn't have. You look like shit. What the hell were you doing?" 

Steve headed to the kitchen to escape the lecture, and Bucky followed.

"You know I'm not about to tell you what to do, but if you're gonna be out all day and half the night then shouldn't you at least let me know?"

Steve poured himself a glass of water to avoid Bucky's eyes, and drank it slowly, leaning against the counter. Bucky was right, he almost always was, and that just made Steve feel so much worse.

"Steve," Bucky said, worried now. He stepped forward and took the glass from Steve, stooping down low so he could look at Steve's face even as Steve stared resolutely at the ground. "You're freaking me out. What's going on?"

Steve chewed on his lower lip.

"You're not mad at me, are you? You know you can tell me -- "

"I went to see Joseph today."

Bucky froze. Steve peeked through at his lashes to look at Bucky, and then looked back at the ground. 

"It's just been so long," he said, twisting his fingers together. "He's been out for five years now, and I've never once thought about going to see him but today's the anniversary of when he got locked up and I..." Steve shook his head, angry at the tears forming in his eyes, and laughed. "It's so stupid."

"It's not stupid," Bucky said. He brushed his fingers against Steve's chin, and when Steve looked up, looked him in the eyes and repeated, "It's not stupid."

Steve shook his head and stepped away. Bucky's hand fell limply to his side. 

"I shouldn't even want to see him. He shouldn't have anyone still thinking about him and checking up on him. The bastard doesn't even deserve to be _alive_ when Ma's not."

Bucky looked at him, eyes sadder than they should ever be, mouth twisted into a frown. Steve didn't even know why Bucky was still his friend, when it seemed like all Steve ever did was make him sad with his tragic backstory and miserable present and nonexistent future. Bucky was the best guy Steve ever met, and all Steve did was upset him. Steve was actually the worst person in the world.

"Steve," Bucky said, the one syllable somehow encompassing concern and care and helplessness and protectiveness all at once.

And somehow that was the straw that broke the camel's back and Steve wilted into himself, barely noticing when Bucky lunged forward to make sure he didn't fall. He was crying in earnest, tears streaking down his cheeks and making a mess of his shirt collar. 

"It's okay," Bucky said with barely restrained panic. He had his arms around Steve and pulled him close, Steve's face fitting snugly so his forehead rested on Bucky's shoulder.

"I'm sorry," Steve tried to say, though it probably didn't make much sense with all the crying he was doing. He took a moment to register how embarrassing it was, that he was standing in the kitchen with his roommate crying about his deadbeat dad. 

"Why are you apologising?" Bucky asked, baffled.

"It just -- it doesn't even make sense why I'm like this, and I made you stay up late for me, and I'm getting your shirt all gross." Steve pulled back a little, trying to discreetly wipe his nose, but Bucky just held him tighter. "It's so stupid, because Joseph ruined our lives but...but at one point he was just my dad."

"And you loved him," Bucky said quietly.

Steve nodded miserably against Bucky's chest. "When I saw him I didn't just see the man who drank too much and was too liberal with his fists, the man who gave me nightmares and who made my mom cry. I also saw the guy who sat with me at the kitchen table and taught me addition, and the guy who played catch with me in the yard, and the guy who got flowers for my mom one time and made her smile for days after. I saw both of them all at once, and I saw the person he is now, the small old man in a wheelchair living in a dump with no one to take care of him and...and I panicked."

"Jesus, Steve, that's..." Bucky pulled Steve closer, if that were even possible. His hands were shaking just a little, and when Steve looked up Bucky's eyes were red-rimmed. "I'm so sorry that you had to go through that. I know that phrase doesn't mean anything but...god, you shouldn't have had to go through that. No one should've, but you especially."

Steve craned his neck to look up at Bucky. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I just -- " Bucky's cheeks were pink. "I just mean that you're the bravest, kindest, best guy I ever met. I wish you could've had a childhood like I did, where you didn't have to deal with any of this and could just be a kid. It's not fair that you had to go through that, it's not fair at all."

Steve stepped back, and this time Bucky let him. "Thanks. It's not your fault, but thanks."

"Yeah." Bucky coughed awkwardly, and rubbed the back of his neck. "You know, whatever you choose to do with Joseph, I'd support you."

"Even if I chose to murder him?"

" _Especially_ if you chose to murder him," Bucky said, and they both grinned at each other. Steve broke eye contact first and looked down, scuffing his feet against the kitchen tiles. 

"Okay," he said to the floor. He looked up at Bucky, who was looking right back at him with an expression that Steve couldn't describe but understood instinctively. He'd looked at Bucky with those same eyes countless times before. "Thank you, Buck."

Bucky lifted a shoulder, cocky grin in place. "That's what friends are for, right?"

Friends. Steve smiled. "Right," he echoed.

"I'm kind of hungry now. How do you feel about fries? My treat."

"It's one in the morning, and you want to get fries?"

"It's always the right time for fries," Bucky said, and swung an arm around Steve's shoulders. Steve definitely didn’t press himself, just a little, against Bucky's side and scoff.

"Well, if you're paying..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am a CC goblin. feed me.


	5. hoarder bucky

It wasn't really all that surprising that after Bucky had finally, finally come home, he wasn't quite the same person that he had been. For one thing, he kept everything he deemed precious close to his chest. Steve had always remembered him as the generous, handsome boy sharing his bread crusts with the younger kids in the orphanage. He couldn't imagine this new Bucky, this not quite Winter Soldier, not quite Bucky Barnes hybrid ever giving anything to anyone. But it never bothered Steve. Of course, after decades of being under HYDRA control, Bucky would be reluctant to ever give anything of his away. Sam, in particular, liked to grouch about Bucky always hoarding the chocolate milk. But really, Sam could just buy his own. And Bucky always shared with Steve, so this was really just a Sam problem, now wasn’t it?

Besides, Steve greatly preferred hoarder Bucky, who knew what he wanted and wasn’t afraid to tell anyone that it was his, over the shell of a person who couldn’t even begin to understand the concept of choice. And despite Sam being annoying, Steve knew he preferred this Bucky too.

Since moving into the Tower, Steve had done absolutely everything in his power to get Bucky anything that he could ever want or need. Most of it just ended up confusing Bucky – after all, it _did_ take two weeks for him to get used to showering on his own and using soap, instead of just getting hosed down by HYDRA cronies. Bucky never touched any of the dozens of hair products that Steve had ordered online, beyond the occasional use of a hair tie here and there. But some of it he adored; the warm blue blanket, the hairbrush, the fuzzy indoor slippers. Bucky never even left the room without it, stashing his belongings in a backpack that he always kept by his side. Steve figured out pretty quick that it was out of fear of losing the only things Bucky had owned in 70 years, or getting them taken away. Soon their apartment floor was regularly stocked with dozens of identical blankets, hairbrushes, and slippers. It was a little excessive, but then again Steve Rogers did not do moderation.

But what Steve didn’t realise was that, while Bucky did love his blanket, and hairbrush, and slippers, he could also give them up in a heartbeat. The only thing he was afraid of losing was Steve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CC is the only thing keeping me alive


	6. deaged pt. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> honestly idk where this is going. do comment what you wanna see and i'll try my best to add it in

Steve could say frankly, that he hadn’t imagined this when he’d left for a mission just a few hours ago. He probably should have gotten used to weird things happening by now, but no matter how many times absurd things happened to him he never quite seemed to be able to wrap his head around them. Tony called it “40’s sensibilities” but Steve didn’t think that was quite right. 

Case in point: the massive cockroaches the Avengers had been called out to fight in the middle of lunch. Steve had already known it would be a nightmare, since regular cockroaches were impossible to kill as is, but he hadn’t counted on a _ringleader_.

“Enjoy!” The man, helpfully dubbed Cockroach Man by Tony, had crowed at the beginning of the battle. He’d spent most of it perched on top of the largest cockroach of the bunch, a truly hideous, shiny brown bug about as tall as a building and big enough to have to squeeze through the streets. Cockroaches had always given Steve the heebie-jeebies, just with how fast they could move, but after this he thought he wouldn’t be afraid of anything any more. 

God, sometimes he really hated his job.

Steve flung his shield hard at the one Cockroach Man was riding, and only just managed to take out one of its antenna. It fell to the ground with all the weight of a small car, and embedded into the asphalt. 

“I signed up to fight Nazis, not cockroaches,” he grumbled to himself.

“We’re in season 10, Cap, the writers have run out of ideas,” Tony interjected helpfully. Steve had no idea what he meant and frankly was afraid to ask. “So, I love your plan, beating the hell out of these things, but is there any way we can wrap this up before dinner tonight? I kind of have a thing.”

Steve made a tactical retreat as the cockroach began scuttling forward for revenge. He pressed himself to the wall of an alleyway, and scanned the streets.

“I can’t find a weak point, beyond their antenna, but I can’t tell what good that does. Anyone?”

“Nothing,” Natasha said. Steve could just barely see her a little ways away, pressed up against a car trying to buy time. “Usually I just step on them, but I have some doubts about how that strategy would play out here.”

Bug spray, Steve thought instantly. Unfortunately, Banner was going to be out of commission for a while. From across the city, Steve could hear the Hulk bellow.

“I have found a strike of lightning is most effective in vanquishing these foul beasts!” Thor said, as usual far more loudly than he needed to be. Steve could see Thor’s lightning a few blocks away strike, and the ground beneath his feet trembled.

“Can we recreate that with repulsors or explosive arrows?” Steve asked. He stepped out from the alleyway, now facing the cockroach’s back, and squinted at the spot between its head and the rest of its body. “Iron Man, Hawkeye, can you aim at the spot in between the neck and the body?”

“One sec,” Clint replied, and soon enough the cockroach Nat had been working on shuddered and nearly fell. “Dammit, how are these things still alive?”

“Do it again,” Steve ordered. He had his eyes on the Cockroach Man, who was looking visibly paler. He’d even pulled out a weapon of his own, and Steve was sure that that was a defensive tactic. “Anyone have an eye on Hulk? Tell him where to smash.”

“I got it,” Tony called. He aimed a repulsor beam at Nat’s cockroach, and finally, the thing collapsed to the ground with a force that made the city tremble, and was still. “Hell yeah! One down.”

Steve wasn’t paying much attention to Tony. No, his eyes were locked on the Cockroach Man. Corner a dog in a dead-end street and it will turn and bite, Steve had seen it time and time again whenever leaders knew that they were about to lose. Steve almost never liked what followed.

Almost on cue, the Cockroach Man turned and saw Steve, an unfortunate inevitability because of his gaudy American flag suit. The cockroach moved towards him and opened its mouth, something Steve honestly didn’t even know they had, and, acting on instinct, Steve launched his shield at it to try and slow it down. Pretty much as soon as the shield left his hand, he knew he had made a mistake. Cockroach Man cocked his gun, and before his shield even made contact with the cockroach Steve was being hit with a glowing green beam of light.

There was a sudden, blistering pain, like he was being consumed from the inside out by flames. Steve thought he might have yelled out in pain, but he couldn’t hear much over the sound of blood rushing in his ears. He felt himself stumble backwards and crumple in on himself. Distantly, he could hear his teammates calling out for him through the comms. He could see Nat, with her vibrant red hair, trying to get to him before Cockroach Man could, but the pain soon took away any coherent thoughts he could muster up. Well, he’d hoped that he’d have a much more heroic death than death by Cockroach Man, but the universe had laughed in his face more times than once, so it made sense why it would choose to let him go out this way.

Steve’s head lolled onto the ground, staring up at the sky before a very familiar face, nearly white with terror came into view. The last thing he heard was his team screaming his name through the comms. Then he sank into the welcoming arms of unconsciousness.

*

The Soldier weaved his way through the debris, eyes fixed on the last place he’d seen Steve.

 _Stupid, stupid,_ he scolded himself. He had promised himself that he would keep an eye on Steve, would protect him, would make sure that nothing and no one (including himself) would ever lay a finger on him again, but now Steve was on the ground and the Soldier had no idea how it happened. He’d failed, again. The thought knocked about inside his brain, taunting him. He used to be a lot better at this.

The Soldier dropped into the alleyway where Steve was from the dead-end, and rushed to Steve’s side. He was still conscious, blue eyes hazy with pain, but they slipped shut almost as soon as Barnes’ knees hit the ground beside him. The Soldier swore to himself, and ran a hand, his flesh hand, as carefully as he could manage over Steve’s chest. Nothing. No open wounds, or fractures, or broken bones. Nothing that would give any indication as to what was going on. 

Did he look…smaller? 

That couldn’t be possible. The Soldier drew back in horror, the annoying little voice in the back of his head fearing that he was the one who’d done it. But it was happening right before his very eyes. Steve was shrinking, the Captain American costume slipping off his shoulders and puddling on the ground where it was usually skin-tight. The Soldier reached out a hand, gripped Steve’s ever-shrinking hand tightly, afraid that after everything he was going to lose Steve again and not know why. 

“Shit.”

The Soldier whirled around, putting Steve behind him, his knives out and teeth bared. The Black Widow was stood just a few steps away, and her eyes were fixed on Steve. 

She put a hand to her ear, probably a comm., and responded, “I don’t know. He’s alive, I’m pretty sure. But…”

She took a step closer, and the Soldier snarled.

“Steve’s feral boyfriend is in the way, I can’t. One sec.” She took her hand away from her ear and fixed the Soldier with a practiced Red Room glare. Barnes wasn’t scared of her. He wasn’t scared of anyone, and he would make sure anyone who was going to stand in the way of him and Steve was going to regret it.

There was a noise behind them and the Soldier whirled around. Iron Man stood where the Soldier had been a few moments ago, one arm up and repulsor glowing dangerously in the centre of his palm.

“Step away from our Captain or you’re going to regret it,” Iron Man said lowly. The Soldier flexed the fingers on his metal hand. He’d show Iron Man regret.

“This isn’t working,” the Black Widow said. She blew out an annoyed gust of air, but her body was just as tense as the Soldier’s. “Soldier, we’re not going to hurt him. We’re his teammates. But we need to see him to know what’s wrong with him.”

The Soldier was unconvinced.

“You want to protect him, don’t you? Steve just got hit by something we don’t know, and if we don’t get a look at him fast, it could get a lot worse.” The Black Widow paused, gauging his reaction. Damn, the Soldier hated her. “We won’t touch him. We just need to let JAR – Tony scan him. We won’t touch him, I give you my word.”

“Nat – “ Iron Man said, sounding as put-off as the Soldier felt. The Soldier didn’t want them anywhere near Steve, but Widow was right. If Steve’s life was in danger because of the Soldier, again…

The Soldier fixed them with the most terrifying glare he could, and hoped that they wouldn’t see just how terrified he was underneath the bravado. Then he moved aside, just enough for Steve’s face to be seen. 

_Steve._ For a moment the Soldier forgot the protective haze of rage that he’d cloaked himself with, because Steve wasn’t Steve anymore. He was a child, probably only about six or seven years old, drowning in his old uniform because he was much too tiny and frail to even hope to fill it out. The sight brought memories ripping forth to the Soldier’s brain, and he stumbled, gripping his head. Steve with a scrape on his cheek and a black eye, scowling as he recounted the wrongdoings of some jerk, why he just had to jump in and save the day. Steve in his Sunday best holding hands with his ma, waving at the Soldier from down the street. Steve splitting the chocolate the nuns had given him, sharing what little he had with the Soldier. Steve beaming at him, fingers smudged with charcoal. 

When he came to, the Soldier realised that he was crouched by Steve’s feet, Widow and Iron Man at his head. They weren’t touching him, like Widow had promised, but the Soldier couldn’t help the fear and the anger from rising within him. He couldn’t afford to get that affected by memories ever again. He readjusted his stance to crouch over Steve, instead, and gently bundled those memories away for safekeeping.

“Well?” Widow was saying. 

“Deaging spell, some form of magic, can’t figure out much of anything besides that.” Iron Man sounded frustrated, and he fell silent soon after, likely running more scans.

Widow pressed her hand to her ear again. “It’s probably magic. How far along are you guys? We need Thor.”

The Soldier tensed at the thought of yet another person hovering around his Steve. Widow cast a look at him, and then at Iron Man. “We need to get Steve out of here. I’ll take the Soldier and Steve to 63, you stay here and finish up.” When Iron Man made to protest, she said, “He’d never leave Steve alone and you know that. It won’t take long, Hulk lost it when Cap went down and Thor’s ‘avenging his fallen brother’ or whatever. I’ve got this.”

Iron Man didn’t move for a second, then he turned to face the Soldier. To the Soldier’s surprise, Iron Man flipped up his faceplate and glared at him. “If you even try anything, I’ll know, and I’ll kick your ass back to the 1940s. Do not hurt him.” With that, he flipped up his faceplate, and took off into the sky.

Widow stood gracefully, and eyed the Soldier. “Carry him, and come with me,” she said. “You don’t have any medical resources, not to mention kid supplies, so don’t even think about running off with him.”

The Soldier scowled. As gently as he could, he picked Steve up, tucking in the uniform more securely around him so Steve wouldn’t get too cold. It was early spring in New York, after all, and Steve had always been prone to sickness. The Soldier didn’t know how he remembered any of this, but apparently it was so ingrained in him that nothing would ever make him forget. The Soldier adjusted Steve’s position in his arms, so he wouldn’t fall, and looked up. Widow was staring at him with something unreadable on her face. 

“Right, then,” she said. She led him through a series of back-alley paths and over buildings, an impossible route for anyone to follow if they hadn’t been enhanced in some way. As it was, the Soldier followed easily; he was only worried about dropping Steve.

In no time at all they were at Avengers Tower. Widow led him through the front entrance of the Tower, which the Soldier knew couldn’t be how the Avengers normally entered the building. They had to switch elevators twice, and though Widow moved quickly the Soldier could still plot out a working layout of the first, seventeenth, and forty-fourth floor. Even then, he doubted he could get very far without the Avengers’ permission; the elevator to the Avengers’ floors had no buttons, and was only activated by Widow’s voice. A disembodied British voice responded to her, and the Soldier glared at the ceiling where the voice was coming from, unnerved. If there were a threat from the voice or the Avengers, the Soldier would be at a serious disadvantage. He tightened his grip on Steve, who kept sleeping. It didn’t matter what they chose to do with him, so long as they didn’t lay a finger on Steve. The Soldier had no way of guaranteeing that, but he would damn well try.

The doors to the elevator slid open on the sixty-third floor. It was mostly empty, probably the bare-bones design of the other living floors. The Soldier could see a kitchen and a common area, but beyond that was long corridors of rooms the Soldier couldn’t see into. When the elevator doors slid shut behind them, the Soldier had to fight the urge to flee. He knew the whole place was reinforced. It might even have been created specifically to contain him. 

“There’s a medical bay down the back. Come on,” Widow said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cc good


	7. steve as peter's mentor pt. I

It was pure coincidence that Steve found himself neighbours to Peter and May Parker. Since moving out from his SHIELD apartment complex, and away from DC, he'd found himself in Queens, in a place shitty enough that no one would think to look for Captain America there. Well, everyone except Natasha, who let herself in one day and gave Steve a very unimpressed look. Steve didn't think it was that bad. Certainly it was a far more familiar sight to him than a freshly renovated, modern apartment. 

The Parkers were good neighbours. Steve would even go so far as to cautiously call them friends. May doted on him like he was a younger brother of sorts, even though she was not much older than Steve (minus seventy years), if at all. Peter alternated between giving Steve almost embarrassing looks of adoration and talking his ear off about anything and everything. May would help Steve collect the mail when he was away on missions, Peter would spend a few hours at Steve's place when May had something on, the Parkers would bring cake over on Christmas so neither of them would be alone. Steve was pretty sure that the Parkers knew he was Captain America, but they'd never said anything and he never offered. All in all, he couldn't ask for better neighbours. 

Then Peter got bitten by a radioactive spider.

He'd shown up at Steve's doorstep, with bedhead and his glasses in his hand, and said, "I don't need my glasses anymore."

"What?" Steve said, in the middle of trying to understand how oil pastels worked.

"I don't know who else to go to," Peter said. "I got bitten by a radioactive spider and now I don't need my glasses anymore."

Steve let him in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CC yes


	8. steve as the winter soldier pt. 1

James Barnes woke with a start, as he always did nowadays. It was something drilled into him by the army some 70 years ago, another part of him that he didn’t recognize anymore. He got dressed and made himself a cup of coffee, stubbornly using a drip coffee maker like the kinds he remembered. As he drank, he stared out at his Brooklyn, and didn’t recognize it at all.

After the Manhattan incident, Howard Stark’s son had kindly offered the five of them a place to stay in his tower. Even the broom closets in the Tower contained more opulence than James had ever seen in his life, and if the circumstances were different (meaning: if Steve were here with him), James might have loved it. He probably would have loved the robot butler, the gleaming kitchens on every floor, and the sleek glass look of the place. But now everything exciting about the future only reminded him of what he had lost. Bucky Barnes might have been good at the future, but losing everything and everyone he had had reminded James that there was no Bucky without Steve. And Bucky Barnes had let Steve die.

*

“You up for some recon?” Romanoff asked the second he stepped into the common room.

“No,” he said. Missions with Romanoff tended to go one of two ways – either she did all the work and he watched from the roof, or something went horribly wrong and James feared for his life. He was never much use, anyway, just a decent shot, so he had no idea why she didn’t just ask someone else. 

She smiled at him, flashing her teeth, and he scowled. “It’ll be fun,” she said. 

“Take Barton.”

“He’s in Guam,” she responded. “Besides, this one’s different.”

He looked sideways at her, and she waved a manila folder at him. “Ghost-hunting,” she said. “Our ghost’s got a hit on Fury, and SHIELD wants to know why.”

James flipped through the folder, intrigued despite himself. _The Winter Soldier_ , the file stated. The only photos were of a figure dressed in all black, their whole face covered up. The only indication that this Winter Soldier was even human was their short-cropped blonde hair, a stark contrast to the rest of their getup. James couldn’t imagine that the bright blonde hair was any use during covert ops.

“Recons are never fun,” he said. He flipped the folder closed and pushed it back towards Romanoff, who simply arched an eyebrow at him. 

“You owe me one,” she said. “Now’s a good time to repay that debt.” James made a face.

“I thought I did that in Paris,” he said. 

“You forgot about Nepal,” she replied, and James groaned. She grinned at him, like a shark might, and pushed the folder back at him. “Transport’s coming in an hour. Get ready before then.” She polished off the rest of her coffee, and left. 

James leaned against the counter, staring at the electronic grocery list on the refrigerator, and didn’t quite know what to do with himself. He wasn’t all that upset about having to do recon with Romanoff; she was good at her job and sometimes they made a pretty great team out on the field, if he did say so himself. It was probably a good thing, too, to get him out of his self-induced solitary confinement of moping or being bored out of his mind. 

He’s never really had hobbies, per se; back then they didn’t have the time or the money or the energy to just do things for fun. Sure, he went out dancing every so often, just to stop himself from going crazy, but that wasn’t really a hobby, was it? It was like going out to see the movies. It was just a thing he did when he could. They’d never dared to spend a cent on things ‘just for fun’, not with Steve’s constant looming threat of sickness, crippling for both the medical expenses and the reduced income. 

Even if James wanted to go out dancing now, where would he go? He’d been good, at some point, at the modern dances, but they certainly weren’t modern anymore. He doubted he could just hit up a popular club and start doing the Lindy Hop. 

Beyond that…James poured himself a cup of coffee just so he would have something to do. Beyond that, it didn’t seem right to be going out and having a ball while Steve lay dead in a ravine.

 _You should’ve caught him_ , James thought bitterly to himself, the thought not at all unfamiliar to him. It haunted him, worse than any flashback or shellshock. He’d always thought Steve would make it, the little punk from Brooklyn who’d prove everyone else wrong. And if Bucky were lucky, he’d be there to see it happen. It wasn’t supposed to be the other way round, Bucky getting the mantle Steve had suffered so much for, Bucky being alive.

James took a sip of his coffee, now in that entirely unappealing lukewarm in-between temperature. He made a face.

Well, he still had 54 minutes, so James sat down in Romanoff’s abandoned seat and flipped the folder back open for a closer look. 

He skimmed over the single blurry photograph, and made his way through the equally sparse pickings of intel gathered. The Winter Soldier was an estimated 6 foot 2, like Steve was after the serum. His left arm was made entirely out of metal, or so it seemed, and had even more enhanced strength than the rest of him, if that were even possible. He first emerged in Russia, and was suspected to be HYDRA, but no one could be sure. SHIELD even recorded that The Winter Soldier had been suspected to be active since the 50s. James couldn’t hide his surprise at that. It didn’t seem like it could be possible, but since first seeing Steve as Captain America, the Red Skull pulling off his face, waking up 70 years in the future, and joining SHIELD and the Avengers, he was learning that nothing was ever really impossible. Still didn’t make it any less weird, though. 

At some point, Romanoff wandered back into the kitchen, peeking over his shoulder to see where he was at. 

“Was The Winter Soldier actually around since the 50s?” James asked her.

Romanoff smirked. “He’s almost as old as you.”

He shot her a disgusted look. “That’s barely a few years since I went in the ice, then.”

“You think they timed it?”

James shrugged. He flipped through the rest of the folder, but there really wasn’t anything left, besides some layouts for the building they were breaking into that James gave only a cursory glance at. He knew Romanoff had it memorised already. “I don’t know. They could’ve. Would’ve certainly been smart.”

“Unfortunately for the rest of us.”

James shrugged. Before he could make a proper response, they heard the unmistakeable sounds of the chopper landing on the helipad outside. Romanoff shot him a grin, and James smiled back despite himself. He would never admit it, but he was getting excited. It had been a long time since something this interesting was happening. And by the looks of it, Romanoff knew it, too.

*

The SHIELD pilot landed the chopper some kilometres away from where their ghost was supposed to be hiding. James and Romanoff were going in first; the SHIELD agents would never be able to get there fast enough for any element of surprise, so they were only acting as back-up. There were some benefits to Zola’s bullshit, it seemed. It took almost no effort to cross those few kilometres in knee-high snow, and then break into the camp. There were just as many precautions put into place as James had suspected, which was probably a good thing. Hopefully, it meant that the Winter Soldier was actually there.

They took to the vents almost immediately, Romanoff leading and James watching her back. Every few steps, and Romanoff would stop, deactivate whatever scanner or bomb or whatever it was that had been meticulously laid out to prevent people from being able to crawl around in the vents. James got bored pretty quickly. He barely even noticed when Romanoff stopped again, sulkily replaying how Romanoff had said it would be ‘fun’ in his head. Then she popped the lid off the vent and hopped down.

James barely resisted the urge to gasp, and instead scrambled over to where Romanoff had been just seconds earlier. She was standing below him, amidst some of the scariest sci-fi looking stuff James had ever seen. That was saying a lot. She gestured impatiently, and James reluctantly joined her on the ground, though far less gracefully than she had.

“This is what we were looking for,” Romanoff said triumphantly, gesturing. The room was some sort of lab, with tables of the kind for cutting people open, terrifying looking tools, some chair rigged up to a million wires, and lining the walls were containers, perfectly human sized. “They keep their medical files on The Winter Soldier here, or at least they’re supposed to.”

“Well, find them faster. This place gives me the creeps.”

“Really? I think it looks cosy. Might decorate my living room like this.” Romanoff grinned at him, and Bucky rolled his eyes. Sometimes she reminded him of a certain snarky blonde, or even one of his sisters who were surely dead by now, and that would bring an unbearable wave of longing and pain. But thankfully, now James only felt a slight pang in his heart that he could easily bury down under layers and layers of protection.

“You do that,” he told her, and she smirked as she turned away. James did the same, slipping past the chair to the machines that lined the walls. Romanoff rifled through some drawers on the other side of the room, pulling out papers in a way that looked careless but James knew was carefully calculated. 

James eyed the chair. It was by far the strangest thing in the room, and that was saying a lot. He reached out to touch it, then thought better of it and picked up some sort of mouth guard from the tray beside it. It was plastic, so it wouldn’t conduct electricity like the metal tools would. Hopefully. James prodded at some of the wires with the mouth guard, but nothing happened. Not that he really thought it would. 

There wasn’t a whole lot James could do about the chair; it looked terrifying but he wasn’t exactly well-versed in horror-movie-esque machinery. Sighing, he set down the mouth guard exactly as he’d found it, and moved away.

“Found anything?” He called to Romanoff.

“I’ve found a lot of things,” she replied. “Just don’t know how much of it is useful.” 

“Need any help?”

She looked up briefly, amused. “Even five year olds have longer attention spans,” she said.

He flipped her off and pretended to be engrossed in the machines behind him. He did not have a short attention span…it was just that the whole room gave him a weird vibe. It was HYDRA, and that was pretty much a guarantee for uncomfortableness, but this was different. James could feel his skin crawl more and more with every passing second.

It could be the coffin-like machines lining the walls. Each of them was perfectly sized so a fully-grown adult could probably fit in each one, and James would bet that that was what they were for. There were even glass panels, perfectly level with James’ face, probably for whoever was unlucky enough to get stuck in one of those things. As James walked by each one, he kept expecting to see someone staring out at him. He was so tense he was almost trembling, but every glass panel showed only empty space.

Then: a pale, lifeless face. James jerked back in horror, nearly tripping over himself to get away. 

“There’s a person in here!” He exclaimed.

Romanoff was by his side in an instant, pushing him aside to get a closer look. The glass pane of the machine was almost completely frosted over, but James could see a set of closed eyes and cropped blonde hair. It was the Winter Soldier, no doubt about it. But as James leaned in closer, it wasn’t the Winter Soldier that he saw.

_Steve?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> any CC, especially CC about the tone and emotional value of this one, would be great thx


	9. 'i'm at the hospital'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt is "i'm at the hospital" from https://promptingofdreams.tumblr.com/post/159273881891/hurtcomfort-dialog-prompts

Steve scowled at his phone, as if it was his phone’s fault that he now had to call his emergency contact, who would no doubt murder him through the phone. He knew Bucky only did it out of concern, but there was something truly mortifying about being told off by his best friend, who, by the way, was only a year older than him and no more. But it couldn’t be avoided. Steve sighed, flexing his fingers in preparation, and then dialed Bucky’s number. He’d had it memorised since the day Bucky got it. 

The phone barely even rang once before Bucky picked up. Steve took a moment to frown disapprovingly; Bucky was supposed to be at work. How he could pick up so quickly Steve didn’t know, but it certainly wouldn’t make Bucky’s boss happy. 

“Steve, what’s up?” Bucky’s voice filtered through the crummy speakers, slightly whispered so he wouldn’t get caught, but full of warmth all the same. Steve’s heart beat a little faster at Bucky’s voice, the little traitor. 

“Hi, Buck.” Steve picked at the sheets on the hospital bed, stalling for time. “Um, don’t worry, I’m fine, but I’m at the hospital.”

There a heartbeat of silence, and Steve braced himself. Right on cue, Bucky yelled, “You’re at the _where_?”, sounding equal parts exasperated and horrified and worried. 

Someone yelled incoherently in the background, and Steve winced. 

“No, no, it’s a family emergency,” Bucky was saying. “I gotta go.”

“Bucky, don’t leave work for me!” Steve said, horrified. 

“Shut up, Steve, you’re in the hospital and you expect me not to leave work?”

“I said I was fine!” Steve protested. 

“You’d say that even if you got hit by a car!”

Steve winced. “About that...”

There was another pregnant pause, and then Bucky said, “Tell me you didn’t.”

“Lying’s a sin, Buck.”

“I’m going to _kill_ you, I swear to god. Which hospital?”

“I’m really fine, though! The doctors said I could go, since all I got were a few scrapes. I wouldn’t even have come but the person who hit me insisted and I felt bad.”

Bucky sighed, and Steve felt bad. “You wouldn’t have gone to the hospital even after you got hit by a car.”

Steve stayed quiet, feeling guilty. 

“Tell me how you managed to get hit by a car in the first place.”

“You’re not gonna like this, Buck.”

“Steve, I already hate every part of this. Can you at least tell me what happened?”

“Well, there was this cat — "

Bucky groaned, and Steve winced. 

“A cat. A cat. You got hit by a car because of a _cat_?”

“Was I supposed to just let him die?” Steve said hotly. 

“You can’t save any more cats if you’re dead, Steve! Jesus H. Christ, if you don’t give a damn about your well-being, can you at least think about mine? What the hell am I gonna do if you’re not here, Stevie?”

Steve looked down. He hadn’t even considered the possibility that he might not end up okay. He’d just seen the cat and reacted without thinking. Privately, he knew that Bucky would be okay if Steve weren’t here, maybe even better, but he also knew that Bucky cared about him almost half as much as Steve cared about Bucky, and if Steve didn’t come home Bucky wouldn’t feel great about it for at least a little while. 

“Steve? Hello? You still there? Steve?”

“I’m sorry, Buck.” Steve said. “I didn’t think about that at all.”

Bucky sighed again, but this time it was less angry and more fond. “I know you didn’t. But next time, please."

“Okay, Buck.”

“Promise me. That you won’t risk your life, ever.”

“But — "

“Promise me, Steve. Please. I wouldn’t be able to take it if you left me, too.”

“...okay, Bucky. I promise. I won’t risk my life, ever.” He hesitated. “And I won’t leave you, either.”

“Good.” Satisfied, Bucky said, in a tone lighter than he’d had the whole phone call, “Now, which hospital are you at?”

“Oh, Buck, you don’t have to — “

“Like hell I don’t. I’m the only one with a car, and if you think I’m gonna let you take public transport after you got hit by a car, then you’ve got another thing coming. Which hospital?”

Steve told him, and scratched behind the cat’s ears. It purred loudly. 

Bucky paused. “Are you kidding me?”

“It didn’t want to leave me!” Steve defended himself. 

“I swear to god, that better be the cutest damn cat in the world,” Bucky muttered. 

“Does that mean it gets to stay?”

“Shut it.”

(Of course, once Bucky got there, the cat rubbed its head against Bucky’s hand and the man was a goner. The cat never left his side, and Steve was only a little jealous.)


	10. steve as peter's mentor pt. II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompts are: “Oh god, you’re bleeding”; “Hey, just look at me. Breathe”; “I could just use a hug” from https://promptingofdreams.tumblr.com/post/159273881891/hurtcomfort-dialog-prompts

Steve hadn’t been expecting a quiet night. As an Avenger, he’d learned to keep his expectations low when it came to alone time; more often than not, as soon as Steve had settled down with his sketchbook or a book he’d been meaning to read, one of his teammates (Tony) would burst in demanding his attention immediately, or some sort of alien creature would attack New York (why was it always New York?), or something equally disruptive and improbably would happen. Then Steve would have to get up from his comfy couch and get punched a bunch of times.

So yeah. He’d learned to expect the unexpected.

But what _still_ caught him off-guard was getting a knock on his window from the fire escape seeing his neighbour’s nephew, Peter, dressed up as _Spider-Man_ , bleeding and panicked.

“ _Peter?_ ” Steve demanded. He threw open the window and helped Peter in, the boy leaning against him for balance. “What — ”

“Hi, Mr Steve,” Peter said, his head dipping alarmingly like he wasn’t quiet in control of his body. “So great to see you again, you should really come over for lunch sometime…”

“Sure,” Steve said, not quite sure what he was agreeing to and not really caring. “Oh god, you’re bleeding.”

Peter looked down at himself as Steve helped him to lie down on his couch.

“That’s not good,” he said. It seemed like a switch had been flipped and Peter was lurching forward, Steve rushing to steady him. “I got hit by something, just now, it got me on my ribs, and it really hurts, and I don’t know where else to go. I don’t want to die, Mr Steve, I’m sorry.”

Steve was so far out of his depth he could almost see the Valkyrie from here. “Hey, just look at me. Breathe. You’re not going to die. I won’t let that happen, okay?”

Wet brown eyes met blue, and Peter nodded slowly.

“I’m going to get the first aid kit,” Steve said, keeping his voice steady. “I’ve got something that will scan your injuries and make sure that everything’s fine. If it’s not, I’ll take you to SHIELD. You’re not going to die.”

“Okay,” Peter said. Steve helped him lie back down again. He could feel the kid’s eyes on his back as he retrieved the first aid kit. The kit was pretty hefty, fit for post-mission clean up, and Steve had demanded it from SHIELD back when he first moved out. At the time he’d felt pretty silly, even more so when it remained untouched after all those months. After all, Steve did have the healing factor. Most of the time Steve could just take a nap for a few hours (or days) and wake up good as new. 

Now, though, Steve had never been more grateful for his initial paranoia. He pulled out the machine, still in its packaging, and set it up as quickly as he could.

“Where did you say you were hit?”

Peter pointed to a dark spot on his suit (was that _latex_?), and Steve positioned the machine over it. After a moment the screen lit up. Steve breathed a sigh of relief.

“Bruised ribs, is all,” he said. “You’ll probably be sore for a little while, but it’ll be okay. Definitely not death-inducing.”

He looked back up at Peter, pleased with the findings, and found the boy bright red.

“Sorry,” Peter squeaked out. “For bothering you.”

“No, hey, don’t apologise,” Steve said. He dropped the machine back into the first aid box carelessly and put his free hand on Peter’s knee. “I’m really glad that you came to me, and extremely honoured too, okay? I would much rather have you come to me and find out that you’re okay, than have you hide your injuries and have to find out after it’s too late that you’re not.”

Peter nodded, but he didn’t take his eyes from his lap. Steve scanned Peter’s red-rimmed eyes, and then the wounds still sluggishly bleeding onto his couch. He bit his lip.  
“Let’s get the rest of your wounds cleaned up, okay?” 

Playing doctor, at least, was easier than whatever Steve had been trying to do earlier. A bag of frozen peas wrapped in a towel, plus a dose of painkillers, for Peter’s ribs; a wet towel to clean his wounds; some cream and gauze to treat them. Most of the wounds, alarming at first in the street light, had closed up significantly in the fifteen or so minutes since Peter got to his apartment. Steve pointedly did not ask why Peter was dressed as Spider-Man, or why his wounds were healing so quickly, or why Peter had come to him instead of his aunt. It had to do with that spider bite he’d gotten as Oscorp, that much was obvious. And Peter’s apparent new hobby of crime fighting was unsurprising given their conversation just over a week ago. Steve just hoped that Peter would explain everything else when he was ready. 

“Anything else I can do for you, Peter?” Steve stood from where he’d been kneeling on the carpet, and realised he was now towering awkwardly over the poor kid. He made to kneel back down, realised that that would be weird, and ended up kind of perching on his coffee table. Thankfully, Peter didn’t seem to notice. He shook his head, fidgeting with the frozen peas.

“You sure? Does anything still hurt? I have more painkillers, if you need them…”

Peter shook his head, then peeked up at Steve and looked away just as quickly.

“What? Peter, if you need anything, I’d be happy to give it to you. No matter what it is.”

“It’s embarrassing,” Peter said to the couch cushions.

“I won’t judge you, I promise,” Steve said, leaning forward a little to be closer to the boy.

“If I could, I mean…” Peter cut himself off, two spots of colour growing in size on his cheeks. “I could just use a hug.”

Steve felt his heart hurt. Of _course_ Peter wanted a hug. He was _fifteen_ , out who-knows-where fighting crime, injured, and genuinely thought that he might die. Steve should’ve known from the second he saw him, but messing things up was kind of his forte.

“Oh, Peter, of course,” Steve said, and pulled him into his arms. 

It had been a long time since Steve had hugged someone. For a moment he worried — was he too stiff, holding too tightly? But Peter just sagged against him like he didn’t have the energy to hold himself upright anymore, and Steve realised that none of that really mattered. He just held Peter back as best as he could, cursing the twenty first century on his behalf, and pretended not to notice the suspicious wet spot where Peter’s face was buried in the crook of his neck.


	11. (16) age realisation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> belonging to the steve is 16 au!

Steve had never seen his birth certificate. Back when his ma was still around, she’d kept it hidden somewhere in their apartment, along with a couple other knick-knacks that she didn’t know what to do with. After she passed, Steve was unceremoniously evicted. In the grief and confusion he hadn’t paid much mind to looking for things that honestly didn’t matter much. He had his mother’s necklace, and he had Bucky, and that was enough.

It wasn’t like he ever really _needed_ his birth certificate, anyway. Back in his day, all people cared about was having a warm body with a good set of hands to do the work. People came and went whenever they pleased, and it didn’t matter if anyone knew their names, much less their birthdays. 

Plus, it was the Great Depression. No one was looking their best, and Steve’s small stature and smooth cheeks could easily be attributed to sickness instead of age. He showed up, did the work that he could, and nobody asked any funny questions. It helped that he rarely worked, anyway, actual illness keeping him down despite his best efforts. Bucky, still 17, but a hell of a lot more mature looking than Steve, was left breaking his back trying to make ends meet.

“Just get better, kid, and we’ll be even,” he’d say, smiling even though Steve could see the strain around his eyes.

“You’re a kid, kid,” Steve would fire back, and that would mostly be the end of it. Still, sometimes Steve would be awoken at the crack of dawn when Bucky left to go to his first job. Then he’d have to choke down his guilt before it crushed him, and promise himself that he’d work a hundred times harder when he got to go back to work. 

Later, war would break out, and enlistment forms started going around like the flu. The government was a little preoccupied with taking the country out of self-imposed exile, and so Steve, drawing in a nervous breath, wrote for the first time that he was 25. 

“ _25_?” Bucky had said, the first time he discovered Steve’s failed enlistment form. “You couldn’t have gone for a more believable age?”  
“I got rejected anyways,” Steve said, admittedly petulant. Bucky just shook his head.

“Don’t do it again, Stevie,” he said. “I ain’t tryna be your pa or anything, but it’s war. Not a fistfight with Philly down the street.”

Bucky had been eighteen, then. Just old enough to enlist on his own. 

“It’s my duty,” Steve had said. He didn’t say whether he meant his duty as an American, or as an enjoyer of the types of freedoms that Hitler was trying to take away, or as the best friend of a guy who was about to go to war. Truthfully, Steve didn’t know either.

But, back to the point: Steve had never seen his birth certificate. And after waking up in the 21st century, he thought he probably never would. Just as well, he supposed. Lying on an enlistment form _was_ a punishable offence.

Which was why it was a little bit a shock to walk into the Avengers common area, having received a cryptic text from Tony, only to see that yellowed scrap of paper all over the news.

 _CAPTAIN AMERICA: BOY-HERO!_ sprawled over the front page of the newspaper.

TV show hosts arguing on national television: “…I mean, clearly this shows that Captain Rogers was an even greater hero than we thought. A twenty five year old accomplishing the things that Captain America did during the war, that was impressive. But a _sixteen_ year old?”

“..I mean, hero or not, he should be court-martialled. Lying on his enlistment forms…”

“…discovered when the tenant of what used to be Captain Rogers and his mother’s apartment decided to do a little renovating…”

“…I just don’t think he’s setting a good example for our kids!…”

_CAPTAIN AMERICA — LIAR?_

“…a sixteen year old leading the Avengers? I don’t think so. The whole program needs to be shut down. Clearly SHIELD must have known…”

Someone clicked the TV off. Steve’s head was spinning. He wanted to say something, but he had no idea what he could say. His gaze was rooted on the black and white photograph of his birth certificate, right there in the newspapers, spelling out clearly: DATE OF BIRTH July 4 1929.

“So I’m guessing it’s all true, then.” As usual it was Tony who broke the silence. But this time his eyes were sharp and focussed on Steve, lacking all of their usual breeziness. “You joined the army, became Cap, and fought in World War Two, before you were even old enough to drive.”

Steve swallowed. “I…”

His teammates waited a moment until it was evident that Steve could not continue. Embarrassingly, Steve realised that both Fury and Agent Coulson were there too, observing him from the far end of the common room.

“Why did you do it?” This time it was Natasha, her voice sounding softer and more compassionate than he had ever heard it.

Steve swallowed. “There were men laying down their lives for our safety and our freedom. I had no right to do any less than them.”

He might have imagined the flash of pride over his teammates faces, so quickly was it gone.

“You were a kid,” Bruce said. 

“Are,” Clint corrected, then paused. “Damn.”

“I just wanted to help.”

“A child, no matter their intellect or ability, has no place on the battlefield,” Thor said gently. 

Steve swallowed again. So was this it, then? They were really going to kick him off the team. Would Tony still let him stay in the Tower, he wondered, or would he have to leave? The weight of everyone’s gaze on him felt more and more stifling by the second, like a lead jacket weighing down on his shoulders. For the first time in a long while, Steve really felt sixteen years old.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and his voice sounded pathetic even to his own ears. “I really didn’t mean any harm, or for you all to find out this way.” He cast a tentative glance around the room, but found that he could not tell what everyone was thinking. “I am willing to accept any and all disciplinary actions, Director Fury sir.”

All eyes turned to Fury. 

“People are calling for your removal from the Avengers, and for you to step down as Captain America,” he said. Steve nodded.

“That’s going to mean the dissolution of the Avengers as a whole,” Tony said suddenly. He was sitting ramrod straight, almost eerily still compared to how restless he usually was. Steve opened his mouth to protest, to stand up for the team he’d grown to love, but Tony bulldozed over him in typical Tony fashion. 

“No, listen. None of us have ever worked in a team like this except for Steve. No one else has Steve’s experience and skill with leading a team like this. None of us have Steve’s mind for strategy on the battlefield. I mean, _I_ could, but I don’t want to. I would never even have signed on for this long with the Avengers — no offence, guys — if it weren’t for Capsicle over there.” 

Tony’s dark eyes flicked over to Steve, who couldn’t seem to do much but blink owlishly back.

“If Captain America goes, the Avengers goes too.”

“Is that a threat, Stark?” Fury asked drily.

Tony spread his hands wide. “I’m not going to make threats so a sixteen year old kid in spandex can continue risking his life. I’m just stating a fact. You know it, I know it, there is no Avengers without Captain America. And the only Cap we’ve got is sixteen. So…”

“Tony’s right,” Bruce said. He smiled when he met Steve’s gaze, and Steve instantly felt better. “The Hulk only listens to Steve. If Steve’s gone, then I don’t think I’ll be much use out there.”

“Clint and I signed up to SHIELD to be spies,” Natasha said. “We wouldn’t be in the Avengers if Steve hadn’t decided to take us with him that day. I expect that only Steve would know how to pit two regular human beings against aliens and gods and have the humans win.”

All eyes turned to Thor, who shrugged. “I have grown fond of this team,” he said. “If all its members were to leave, then I do not see why I should stay.”

Fury let out a long, drawn out sigh. “So, what I’m hearing is, I can either continue to let a sixteen year old out into life or death situations and risk a PR catastrophe, or I can dissolve the best defence that Earth currently has against superpowered beings. That right?”

“See, he’s smart.” Tony said. “He gets it.”

Fury turned to Agent Coulson. “Find a good publicist,” he said. “Captain America stays.”

Steve stepped aside as Fury swept past him. Agent Coulson made to follow, then paused. 

“Most adults would’ve stopped trying after the first rejection,” he said. “You weren’t even supposed to be out there. Why did you keep trying?”

“I just wanted to help,” Steve said. An almost childlike look of awe filled Agent Coulson’s eyes, and Steve was embarrassed by the reverence he didn’t deserve.

“So,” Tony said, after both men had left. “First of all, you’re grounded. Second, I’m going to have to rewatch those old tapes, because I refuse to believe that you were saving the world when you were basically a toddler.”

“I wasn’t saving the world, Tony,” Steve said, deciding that it would be pointless to fight the grounding. “Millions of men and women stood up to fight, on the battlefield and off — ”

“Nope, new rule, minors are not allowed to lecture us about freedom or liberty or the human spirit.”

Steve sighed, but he couldn’t fight the joy that was threatening to shine through from every inch of his skin. He could handle a few jokes at his expense if it meant that he got to keep his family.


	12. deaged pt 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for reference, "have the bees" means to be rich. 'gruel' is the stuff that oliver twist ate. think a really diluted porridge.

The suit had barely finished disassembling before Tony was marching towards the elevators. 

“Sixty-three, JARVIS,” he said sharply. In just a few seconds the doors were sliding open again, and Tony strode out, heading towards the medical bay. He still had his repulsors on, and he powered one of them up just so the Winter Soldier would know what he was up again, if (or when) he lost it and thought tiny-Cap would be a good punching bag. Tony wasn’t taking any chances. He’d seen the videos. Actually, the whole world had seen the videos, but Tony had also seen Cap lying prone in the hospital bed looking like a Jackson Pollock piece, and the look of devastation on his face when they told him that the Winter Soldier had disappeared. Tony wasn’t going to let that happen again. Steve was way too important to let him be manipulated by a top HYDRA assassin. His pretty face was just wasted on moping.

Natasha looked up when he entered the medical room. She raised an eyebrow at his repulsors, then inclined her head ever so slightly to where the Winter Soldier was perched on the edge of the examination table, arms full of tiny-Cap. He didn’t even look up when Tony entered the room. His eyes were locked on Steve’s face.

“I think that’s enough cuddling for today,” Tony said, his tone too sharp to be joking. “Why don’t you put Cap down and step aside so we can scan him properly. I hear Antarctica’s nice this time of year.”

The Winter Soldier barely batted an eye at his remarks, but he hesitated, still looking down at tiny Cap. Tony clenched his fist, hearing the whine of the repulsors starting up. Finally, the Winter Soldier looked up sharply and fixed on Tony’s repulsor. 

“We’re not getting any younger, here. Except Cap, of course.”

Reluctantly, the Winter Soldier stood, and set Cap down on the examination table. He stood by his side for a second, flesh hand giving a fleeting touch to Cap’s blond hair, and then he retreated to the far corner of the room. He stood in an uncomfortably tense pose, eyes never leaving Cap’s still prone form.

Breathing out a sigh of relief, Tony made his way closer to Cap. The repulsor on his right hand retracted easily to allow him to work, and he began pulling up equipment as soon as he was able. The Winter Soldier looked more and more uncomfortable the more machines and holograms were hanging around Cap, obscuring him from the Winter Soldier’s view, but Tony didn’t care. 

Cap looked alarmingly tiny, even for his now reduced age. Of course Tony knew the story of how Cap turned from shrimp to man, but seeing what ‘shrimp’ actually meant was still jarring. Tony was used to Cap’s Dorito torso and effortless abs; this kid, even without the malnutrition that Cap must’ve actually had as a kid, looked like he would shatter at any wrong move. Tony had never really felt much when faced with kids, except for ‘please don’t come over here’, but for some reason now he felt an overwhelming urge to protect tiny-Cap. It was probably nothing.

“Well?” Natasha demanded. There was just the barest quiver in her voice, so faint that Tony would never have noticed if they hadn’t been teammates for so long. “How is he?”

At that, the Winter Soldier stepped forward from his corner of shame to listen as well. Tony checked over the data once more just to make sure, something he never really used to do. 

“He’s fine,” he said. The room was immediately filled with relief so strong it was almost palpable. “He’s just a mostly healthy eight year old. Some medical stuff, but nothing we really need to worry about. JARVIS will take care of it. Remember to take lots of photos, so we can hold it over Steve’s head if he comes back to normal.”

“What do you mean, ‘if?” The Winter Soldier demanded, the longest sentence that Tony had ever heard him say. He stepped forward, and Tony immediately pulled up his repulsors.

“Don’t,” he warned, and the Winter Soldier stopped.

“Oh, for god’s sake,” Natasha snapped. “ _Steve_. We’re here to talk about _Steve_. Can you two behave for just one second, for Steve?”

“I can behave,” Tony said, surly. “Tell _him_ not to be murder-y and I won’t have to get distracted.”

“I didn’t want to,” the Winter Soldier said quietly. Tony chanced a look at him and wished he hadn’t. “I didn’t want to kill anyone.”

“Yeah, okay,” Tony said, and turned away so he wouldn’t accidentally feel sorry for the murderer who killed his parents. “Anyway, Steve’s fine.” He moved to pick him up, realised about a hundred reasons why he shouldn’t do that, and then looked at Natasha beseechingly. She scowled, but gently scooped up mini-Steve and held him against her body, cradling the back of his head like she was afraid to hurt him. “So you can go now, Murderborg. Like, right now.”

“No.”

Any goodwill that Tony might have had for the Winter Soldier vanished in an instant. Tony’s repulsor hand was up and pointed at the Soldier before he could even think about it. In response, the Soldier bared his teeth and flicked his wrist. A deceptively small knife slipped from his sleeve and into his palm.

“My Tower, my rules,” Tony snarled. His repulsors, programmed to react to his mood, were starting to glow alarmingly blue. Tony found that he really didn’t care.   
“Why they fightin’?” A kid whispered, in the way kids did when they just couldn’t control their volume. A kid with an unmistakable Brooklyn accent.

Both Tony and the Soldier turned with almost comical speed, hiding their weapons behind their backs. Tiny, bite-sized Steve Rogers, cradled in a very unamused Natasha Romanoff’s arms, stared back at them.

“Because they’re idiots,” Natasha said, fixing them with the sort of look that promised murder. 

Bite-sized Steve gasped and then giggled. “That’s a bad word!”

“Absolutely, horrible word, my feelings are extremely hurt.” Tony stepped forward, to do what, he wasn’t sure himself, and the Soldier followed. They stopped at the same time and glared at each other. 

“Steve, would you cover your ears, please?” Natasha asked pleasantly. Tiny Steve obediently put his hands over his ears and hid his face in the crook of her neck, giggling. “Okay, both of you idiots listen up. If you want to have a pissing contest, that's fine by me. But don't even try doing it in front of Steve, who is still _eight years old_ for reasons that we have not yet figured out. If you hurt him because you can't control yourselves, I will remove your intestines and strangle you with them." She swept past the two of them with a flourish, and Steve peeked up at them, still happy as a clam.

“Where are you – ?” The Soldier started.

“The med bay. So Steve can see an actual doctor without the two of you bothering us.” She smiled beatifically at them as the elevator doors shut. “Sort this out.”

*

“Can I open my ears now?” 

Natasha looked down at baby Steve. He had the same wide-eyed, trusting gaze as adult Steve, but it was truly lethal coming from a child. The second he asked for anything, everyone in a hundred mile radius would be running to get it for him, she was sure of it. 

“Of course you can, Steve. Thank you for doing so well.”

Steve beamed at her and Natasha couldn’t help but smile back. Just as the elevator doors opened, a thought crossed her mind, and she asked, “Do you know who I am?”

“Nope!” He said, not seeming to realise the issue.

A lesser woman would’ve paused, but Natasha didn’t even falter on her way to the doctor she’d called down from SHIELD while the boys were fighting.

“Next time, you can’t just walk off with someone you don’t recognize, okay?” She said.  
“Why?”

“Because it’s not safe.” Briefly, she wondered when ‘stranger danger’ had started being taught to kids at school. Didn’t they have that in the 40s?

“Why?”

“Because if you don’t know someone, then you don’t know if they’re good or bad.”

“Why?”

Natasha looked down at baby Steve, and he grinned innocently at her. She booped his nose, unable to resist, and he giggled.

“Just don’t wander off with strangers,” she told him. “If I don’t tell you they’re nice, then that means that they’re bad, okay?”

“Okay,” Steve said. Natasha still wasn’t quite sure if he understood, or if he was just impatient to end the conversation. But the doctor was already waiting, staring at them with amusement, so she set Steve down on the examination table.

“Hi, kiddo,” the doctor said to Steve. Steve looked up at him, and then looked at Natasha.

“Nice?” He asked her. 

“Nice,” she agreed. “But only for right now. No leaving with him unless I say so.” Then she glared at the doctor to make her point clear.

The man cleared his throat, and said, “I’ll just take a quick look at the properties of the de-aging spell, then,” with the end of the sentence curling up into a question. Natasha nodded, and the doctor’s fingers flared up with a gold light. Steve gasped.

“Wow,” he whispered, eyes huge. The doctor put his fingers to Steve’s forehead, and Steve leaned backwards to try and keep his eyes on the light, nearly toppling over in the process. Natasha had to stifle a smile. She had a reputation to keep, after all.

Almost as quickly as it began, it was over. The doctor stepped away from Steve, the lights in his fingers dissipating much to Steve’s disappointment.

“Just a regular de-aging spell,” he told Natasha. “It’ll last anywhere between 3 to 5 days, with no lasting effects. Just a practical joke, I assume.”

“I think it came from a gun, though,” she said. The doctor made a face, seemingly unconcerned.

“Lots of quacks selling bottled spells nowadays,” he said. “Used to be mostly love spells, but I guess now they’re getting creative.”

“Is there any way to reverse the spell before it wears off on its own?”

“Sure, but none of those ways are without their side effects. Better to just let it be.” The doctor glanced over at Steve, who was swinging his legs in boredom. “He’s going to be exactly like a kid as long as the spell is active, so just treat him like a regular eight year old.”

“Is he going to remember anything once he’s back to normal?”

“Hard to say. Depends on the person. Usually no, but,” the doctor shrugged. “Captain Rogers makes it a habit to prove everyone wrong.”

“Thanks,” Natasha said, a quick dismissal. “Oh, and if you tell anyone…” She let the threat hang in the air, and the doctor dipped his head in acknowledgement and disappeared. 

Steve gasped, looking at Natasha with such a comical look of shock that she couldn’t help but smile. 

“Let’s get you some grub, okay?” She said, scooping Steve up. “If we’re lucky those two will have located their brains by now.”

*

If Black Widow was hoping for them to have sorted through their differences by the time she got back, she would be sorely disappointed. They’d agreed on an uneasy truce, just until Steve went back to normal, and they eyed each other from opposite ends of the room while they waited for Widow to let them out. The air in the room was almost solid with tension, and they bolted out of there as soon as they were able. 

Likely to Stark’s disappointment, Widow had let the elevator bring the Soldier directly to their common floor. Steve was sat on the kitchen counter, watching Widow rummage through the fridge, and he turned when he heard the elevator doors ding.

“Aunt Nattie, nice or mean?”

Widow turned to look at them, and she hesitated before she said, “Nice.”

“Well of course I’m nice,” Iron Man said, striding forward with a confidence that made the Soldier uneasy. “I let you stay in my Tower free of charge, I have Pep give money to charity all the _time_ did I forget to mention that I’m Iron Man? I’m the nicest guy you could possibly meet.”

“What’s Iron Man?” Steve asked, staring at Iron Man curiously.

“Who,” Iron Man corrected. “And it’s me. International crime-fighter, defender of the innocent, yadda yadda.”

Steve’s eyes grew impossibly wide. “Wow,” he breathed. Completely charmed, as the Soldier noted bitterly. Almost as if on cue, Steve’s gaze slid to the Soldier, and he asked, “Who are _you_?”

The Soldier froze. Former assassin, hand of HYDRA, absolute nobody, all sounded pretty bad. 

“…James,” the Soldier said. 

“I have a friend called James too!” Steve said.

“Gee,” James said.

“He has brown hair also, and he’s the best. All the kids like him cause he’s real funny, but he won’t play ball with them unless they let me play too, ‘n’ that’s killer diller ‘cause most kids ‘on’t like me much and – ” Here Steve paused to take in a huge breath, his skinny shoulders rising with the exertion. 

“Slow down,” James said, alarmed. He reached to place his flesh hand on Steve’s back but stopped before he could touch him. Steve took another exaggerated breath, the sound rattling in his lungs, and then another, until finally he was breathing normally. 

“Aw, shoot,” Steve said, sounding more inconvenienced than upset. “That’s why the other kids ‘on’t like me much. I’m okay, though!” He added quickly, seeing James’ expression. “Happens all the time.”

“You gotta be more careful,” James said. Steve pouted.

“You sound like _my_ James,” he said.

“Well, you know how Jameses are,” Tony cut in, glaring at James when Steve wasn’t looking. “All the exact same person. Tonys, on the other hand, are so much better.”

“Behave,” Widow said, and set an armful of vegetables on the counter next to Steve. Steve eyed the small mountain of food, and poked a potato.

“You must really have the bees if you got all this food, Mr Iron Man,” he said. “I never seen this much food _ever_.”

A spoonful on ketchup in a mug of hot water, a blonde woman James instinctively knew was Mrs Rogers saying, “Now don’t you worry, James, you can stay with us as long as you like.” Steve, younger than he was now, a tooth missing from his smile, saying, “Ma got us milk so we got real soup t’night!”

James blinked, and the image was gone. Iron Man, clearly a little shaken, was saying, “Well, no more gruel for you. I have so many bees. You’re getting steak every day from now on, you hear me?”


	13. steve and tony stark pt. I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> from this prompt that i found somewhere:
> 
> Tony is the brilliant older brother, following in his father's footsteps. Steve is the scrawny second born, perplexingly inclined towards art, and equally bewilderingly determined to join the army someday.
> 
> Cue some subtle favoritism dynamics within the family (Maria favoring Steve, Howard favoring Tony). 
> 
> But, as far as Tony and Steve are concerned? None of that matters, at least in terms of how they relate to each other. Tony has always given Steve noogies, and called him a skinny dork--but the only one who gets to do that to his kid brother is him, and you are dead meat if you try. Because he's the older brother, and from him it's done fondly, and it's His Right. Steve works dutifully hard at school to get better than average (but not mind blowing) grades, and while it drives him a little crazy the way Tony seems to achieve academic and scientific brilliance as if by accident, he doesn't begrudge Tony. Moreover, it makes him angry the way people treat Tony first like a prodigy and Howard Stark's Heir, and second like a person, and a kid who really would rather have his father's love instead of merely his approval.
> 
> Neither of them are quite what their parents expect. Tony's got the responsibility level of a black sheep waiting to happen, but all the brains to be the heir his father always wanted. Steve's got Dutiful Son written all over him, but none of the drive or scientific genius to be what Stark Industries needs in a future leader. 
> 
> Which, of course, just means that Tony and Steve balance each other out perfectly as best friends. 
> 
> There are so many awesome directions I could see this going--from Tony makes suits for both himself and Steve, to Steve eventually still determining to join the army and getting the Serum/Tony making his own suit, to the two of them growing up to run Stark Industries together with epic Skills of Teamwork. Or, you know, you could just do ALL THE THINGS. :D 
> 
> TL;DR: Tony and Steve are brothers (literally, by blood), who torment each other almost as much as they love each other.

“Tony?” Steve poked his head over the staircase railing, scanning the dark workshop for his brother. Tony spun around from where he was huddled over a humanoid figure, arc reactor immediately casting a glow over the floor, and waved Steve over. “What’s all this about?”

“Made something for you,” Tony said, bouncing on his heels as he waited for Steve to make his way over. The floor was littered with metal detritus, a side-effect of being around Tony Stark, and Tony’s eyes had a manic energy that Steve knew to be wary of. It was those eyes that got them into trouble all the time as children, the look of someone who was going to do something just because they could. 

“You made me something,” Steve said. “Is it going to do something I’m not going to like?”

“Probably,” Tony replied. Steve sighed. 

“What is it?”

“So you know how I made my great escape, Howard Stark’s heir with the giant metal suit?” Tony spread his arms wide, positively reeking of bravado. That worked for the paparazzi, and the tabloid-reading vultures, but Steve liked to think that he knew his brother, sometimes better than Tony knew himself. 

“Dad had nothing to do with your escape,” he said. 

Tony rolled his eyes. “Don’t let Howard hear you say that,” he said, but Steve could tell that he was touched. “Anyway. So not the point. But you remember the suit, right?”

“Yes,” Steve said slowly.

“I made it better! Ta-da!” Tony gestured towards the creepy humanoid figure, and Steve squinted at it. It was definitely less bulky than the one that Tony had made in Afghanistan, and sleeker too, a more cohesive whole than the one made of scrap metals. 

“It looked great, Tony,” Steve said, and his older brother preened. “It looks like something from those sci-if movies. It just...looks a little small for you?” Tony waved a hand dismissively.

“That’s ‘cause it’s not for me,” he said. “It’s for you. Now come on, keep telling me how awesome I am.”

“Wait, what? Why is it for me? Shouldn’t it be for you?”

“You’re smaller, so it’s cheaper to make,” Tony said. Steve shoved him as hard as he could. 

“Shut _up_ , you jerk. That’s not why,” Steve said crossly. Tony laughed, and tried his best to mess up Steve’s hair. Steve shoved him again, and then they were tussling in the middle of Tony’s workshop. Dum-Dum beeped from across the room, where he’d been banished, and Tony let Steve up from his chokehold. 

“Okay, fine, that’s not entirely why,” Tony admitted. Steve peeked up through his lashes, hands stilling from where they were trying to fix his hair. Tony sighed and looked away, walking over to the other side of the suit. 

“You know I...get nightmares, sometimes,” he began. That was an understatement. Steve slept now on a spare bed in a corner of Tony’s bedroom, a temporary arrangement that was looking less and less temporary by the day. He could count on one hand the number of times that Tony had a full night’s sleep.

After Tony had gone missing, Steve had hauled a cot into his bedroom, with the excuse that it would be easier to keep in contact with the military and Rhodey if he were in Tony’s house, instead of his little place in Brooklyn. Mostly, though, Steve just missed his brother. The world felt a lot quieter without Tony in it, and going back to his lonely apartment in Brooklyn seemed impossible. Steve always figured that once they found tony, Steve would move back to Brooklyn, and things would go back to normal.

That plan had been scrapped unceremoniously. After Tony had been cleared to take care of himself without assistance, and Steve had made to leave, Tony had looked at him with those terrified eyes. “You’re leaving too?” He said. 

It was like they were kids again, before Dad’s words had made their impact on Tony, before the media forced them into becoming caricatures of themselves, before Mom and Dad were murdered. Just Tony and Steve, two sides of the same coin, huddled together under the blankets telling each other the contents of their souls. 

“Of course not,” Steve had said. “Never.” And that was that.

Now, he gazed up at his older brother, heart thudding in his ears, wanting so desperately for Tony to let him in again that he began to almost feel stage fright, not wanting to say the wrong thing.

“Well, I get nightmares a lot. But they’re…not what you think.” Tony glanced up at Steve, twisting a spare piece of metal in his hands. “They’re not flashbacks, or anything. They don’t even…I’m not…” He flung the piece of metal against the table and it glanced off, landing among the other bits and pieces on the floor. Tony’s face was shrouded in shadow, his arc reactor casting blue light over his skin.

“I don’t have nightmares about what they did to me,” he started. Steve stayed quiet, for once unsure about what to say to his brother. “Or what they did to Y—to the other prisoners. In all of my nightmares, I’m scared of what they could do to _you_.”

Steve blinked. “Me?” 

“It’s so stupid,” Tony said, almost angrily. He was clearly avoiding Steve’s gaze. “I know you weren’t there, I know they don’t even exist anymore so there’s no way that they could get you, but…”

“But you just want to make sure,” Steve finished. Tony nodded. 

“Just tell me I’m being an idiot and we can forget this whole conversation. I need a drink. Or ten.” Tony started heading towards the stairs, kicking things aside carelessly, until Steve grabbed his wrist.

“You’re not an idiot, and you’re not supposed to drink,” he said. Tony blinked at him. “Look, when you went missing, I almost threw up because I was so scared for you. Even when you came back, I would wake up in the middle of the night just to make sure that you were really here, and it wasn’t just my imagination. If I had the brains to make a big metal thing to protect you, I would have, even when I already knew you were safe.”

“Oh,” Tony said, quietly.

“So you’re _not_ an idiot, you emotional constipated idiot. You’re just looking out for me. You always have.” Steve swallowed, suddenly teary-eyed. He’d almost lost Tony. Even just the thought of that gave him chills. “So,” he said, aiming for light-hearted. From Tony’s sideways glance, he wasn’t quite successful. “Can I try on the big metal thingamajig, now?”

“Thingamajig?” Tony snorted. “Are you ninety years old?”

“It’s a good word!”

“What was that? Sorry, I couldn’t hear you over your bones creaking.”

Steve tossed a spare screw at him, and Tony dodged it, grinning. The air was still heavy with their admissions, and maybe they really should talk about it. But, at least for now, Steve let it slide. They would have the rest of their lives to talk about it.


	14. steve (16) gets hurt pt. I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the super short chapter today. i got kind of in over my head with this daily updates thing. if you left a comment that i haven't replied to yet, i'm really sorry! i have seen them, i just haven't have time to formulate a response yet. i will definitely get back to you soon.
> 
> based on this prompt:   
> During a fight, all appearances make it look like Steve's been killed - collapsed building? Explosion? Et cetera.   
> An honest-to-God grim, angry, dead serious Tony takes charge of the team. No snark, or flash, or style. Just killing Bad Guys.   
> This sets the tone for the rest of the Avengers - as if they weren't angry enough already - and by the time the fighting's over and they discover a an injured-but-alive Steve they're all grim and angry and can't just snap out of it, despite being obviously relieved he's not dead. Thor's got a literal storm cloud gathering overhead, Clint's and Natasha are just in mean ninja-assassin mood, and Hulk is throwing an epic tantrum despite not having any more baddies left to smash.  
> Steve gets to talk them all down while trying not to collapse from his injuries. Then he does collapse - and finds out that was really all he had to do to get them to snap out of it, after all.  
> Bonus points for Hulk carrying Steve. Because reasons. ^^
> 
> fits into the steve-is-16 verse!

It all happened so quickly.

One moment Steve was giving orders, a flash of red white and blue in the corner of their eyes. The next moment, there was nothing but rubble where he had been standing. 

"Steve?" Tony asked over the comms, code names be damned. "You there?"

There was silence. 

"Captain Rogers," Agent Coulson said. "Come in if you can hear us."

"I'm heading over right now, five seconds," Clint said. Tony dodged an incoming projectile from the mothership, and then shot it down, body itching to go to where Steve was. Ever since receiving the revelation that their captain was only 16, the dynamic in the team had changed. They'd always looked out for each other, but knowing that one of their own was a literal child, two decades younger than their next youngest member (Natasha, who was probably 36, though no one could be sure), ramped things up into overdrive.

It was evident in the way that Hulk would subtly hunch over Steve like a big green shield if he thought there were any danger; the way that Tony started spending more time than usual on Steve's gear, double and triple checking for weak spots; the way that Natasha started picking and choosing her work with SHIELD to protect Steve; the way that Clint and Bruce started feeding Steve, who was perpetually hungry, like a mother bird fattening up her young; the way that Thor was almost always near Steve, nowadays, revelling in becoming an older brother again; the way that the team would keep an eye on their youngest member no matter what they were doing.

It was a bad time to mess with Steve. 

"I don't see him," Clint said tersely. "The whole building went down on top of him. I can't see anything."

"You sure he was in there when it came down?" Tony's voice sounded strange even to his own ears, strained and tense where he usually tried to shield his emotions behind humour. Figures that Cap would be the one to bring down his walls. All the man -- the _boy_ \-- needed to do was bat his pretty blue eyes, and the world would come crumbling at his feet.

"I saw him go down. He was checking for survivors, and one of those missiles plowed right into the building. I..."

Tony knew what Clint was thinking. Steve had always survived situations that no regular human being should be able to, but getting hit by a bomb was hard to come back from. Luck had to run out sometime.

The comms were dead silent, the whole world seemingly muted in light of this turn of events. 

"Keep looking," Tony heard himself say. "We're not giving up on him until I see with my own damn eyes that there's nothing to save. Because we all know damn well he would do the same for us."


	15. steve as the winter soldier pt. II

2\. 

It shouldn't have been possible. James' brain was telling him that there was no way that it could be his Steve -- his Steve had died in a ravine some seventy years ago. But James would recognise Steve Rogers anywhere, anyhow, and he knew that that was Steve.

He ran his fingers across the damn thing, looking for any kind of latch or opening. Finding none, he wedged his fingers into the gaps of the door and pulled as hard as he could.

“James, don’t,” Romanoff said, fiercer than James had ever heard her. “Have you lost your mind?” He could feel her glowering, but he ignored her completely. There wasn't a single being on Earth that would keep him from doing what he should've done in '44 -- saving his friend. With a jerk, he ripped the door off its hinges. The Winter Soldier – Steve – was bound to the machine with so many restraints that his skin was almost completely hidden. James ripped every single one of those restraints off, hating them for keeping Steve from him. There was a roaring in his ears, a fury in his veins, and he barely even noticed Romanoff trying to pull him away. 

Once the restraints were off, Steve fell limply into James’ arms. He was so cold he might well have been plucked directly from that ravine, and he didn't look like he was breathing, but that wasn't an option that James was going to accept. James pulled his best friend as far away from the machine as he could and sank to the floor, Steve in his arms, rubbing at his chest like he used to do some 70 years ago whenever the little punk got a cold. Steve’s skin felt like ice.

“James,” Romanoff said again, sharply. She'd drawn her gun at some point, and had it pointed directly at them. “Get away from the Winter Soldier.”

James ignored her, save for leaning forward to cover Steve's chest and head with his own body. Steve was still ice cold, and that could only mean one thing, but James would never accept that. He pressed his body to Steve’s, trying to transfer as much body heat as possible. If it didn’t work…it had to work. It just had to.  
Slowly, so gradually that James almost thought he was hallucinating it, Steve’s body began to warm up. It was when he took a breath that James felt the universe right itself on its axis. Everything was all right again, now that Bucky had his Steve.

“James!” Romanoff grabbed his arm tight, and he lifted his head to glare at her. She glared right back. "What the hell are you doing? He's going to kill us both."  
“He won’t,” James said fiercely. “He’s my friend.”

“He’s the Winter Soldier, James!”

“He’s Steven Grant Rogers, the original Captain America, and my best friend.” James glared at her, and had the momentary satisfaction of watching her eyes grow wide. “I am not leaving him behind, not now not ever. He goes wherever I go. If he stays then I stay, too.”

Romanoff stared at him. “Dammit, James!” She hissed. At that moment, Steve stirred slightly, and she jumped back into a crouch.

When Steve’s eyes opened, James thought he could believe in a god again. They were the same bright blue that haunted James' dreams, just glazed over with confusion. When they fixed on James, he could see the way his brow furrowed ever so slightly and his lower lip jutted upwards just so, the ghost of his old tics.

“It’s okay,” James said quietly, just loud enough for Steve to hear. When the crease between his brows didn’t fade, James lifted a hand to smooth it away. Steve closed his eyes and seemed to brace for impact. James swallowed his fear, his anger, his grief, and, as gently as he dared, ran his fingers through Steve’s hair. Steve opened his eyes slowly, waiting for the other shoe to drop. When James just continued to run his fingers through his hair, Steve let out the softest sigh, so inconspicuous that it couldn’t be heard, and leaned into it, just a little. James felt his heart splinter into a hundred million pieces. He bit back a sob.

A few steps away, Romanoff was still watching them, her face unreadable. After a moment she put her finger to the comm. in her ear.

“Pick-up,” she said. “We’re bringing the Winter Soldier. Basement, room 514. ETA?” She hesitated, and looked over at James and Steve, so tangled up together it was hard to tell where one ended and the other began. “We’re not leaving him behind. Sarge’s orders.”

*

Honestly, how they managed to get out of the HYDRA base and back to Avengers Tower was a blur for James. As soon as he’d seen Steve’s face, his world had sharpened and zeroed in on him, everything else fading into a blur. In the back of his mind he heard Romanoff barking orders to the SHIELD agents, leading James and a disturbingly pliant Steve to the helicopter, and then finally into the containment room at Avengers Tower. It was on the roof and supposed to be used for the Hulk, but James didn’t care. Steve just went wherever he was told, movements still sluggish and eyes hazy. James knew that this couldn’t be how Steve – how the Winter Soldier normally woke up, and a gnawing fear that they’d done something horribly wrong by just pulling Steve straight out of the ice box itched at James’ mind. But he shoved it firmly aside, and focussed on helping Steve walk. 

It wasn’t until they had reached the Hulk containment room that Steve came fully into consciousness. James had been sitting on the floor with Steve in his lap, much like in the HYDRA basement, and he felt Steve stiffen in confusion when he got a grip of his surroundings. Still, he didn’t move, not even to sit up, and James was…he was terrified.

“Steve?” He said softly. His fingers paused uncertainly in Steve’s hair, waiting for a response, but Steve didn’t react. He tapped lightly on Steve’s right shoulder. “Steve?”

At that, Steve sat up, movements robotic. James finally caught sight of his left arm, a bright, unnatural silver, and he swallowed down his bile. _You should’ve caught him._

“What are my orders?” Steve asked. 

James’ brow furrowed. “Orders? Orders for what?”

Steve had had his gaze fixed on the ground, but at James’ visible confusion he looked up briefly at him, and then away, never making eye contact. “My mission,” he said, but his sentence curled up at the end and he sounded just as confused as James felt.

“There’s – there aren’t any, Steve. You’re free. No more HYDRA,” James looked at Steve, as if he could convince him by sheer force of will. A thought struck him, so sudden that it almost winded him. “Don’t you remember me, Stevie?”

“You’re my handler,” Steve said, matter-of-factly. 

James felt like the world had dropped out from under his feet. “I’m Bucky.”

Steve hesitated, peeked up at him through his lashes, demure where he used to be confident. “Bucky?”

James thought he might cry. He smiled instead, as shaky as it was. “Yeah, pal. It’s me, Bucky. James Buchanan Barnes. I know I got here a bit late but I swear to god I ain’t ever leavin’ your side again.”

“Mission?” Steve asked again, tone heartbreakingly confused. 

“Steve,” James said, almost a plea. 

“Who the hell is Steve?”

For a second James was convinced that this was all some kind of horrible nightmare. Nothing was making sense at all, and the one thing that he’d thought he would always know – Steve – was acting like a stranger. Surely this couldn’t be real, could it? Steve with ridiculously short hair, a metal arm, not even knowing his own name. James would wake up and realise that this was just another one of those dreams where he imagined that Steve was by his side again.

But deep down, James knew that this wasn’t a dream, and the despair quickly gave way to rage. Someone had done this to his Steve, taken his arm, his personality, and even his memories. He was going to kill them all.

"I'm going to kill them," he vowed. He didn't miss the way Steve looked up at that almost-mission statement. "I'm going to burn HYDRA to the ground, I swear to god."

That rage only helped a little, until he realised that no matter how angry he got it still wouldn't help Steve. And then that anger faded into something that felt a lot like fear.

*

"Never heard of him." Tony said. 

"That's kind of the point." Natasha scowled, and crossed her arms again. Ever since that disastrous mission (and subsequent clean-up) she'd been on-edge, fidgety in a way that was utterly unlike her. But Jesus Christ, the Winter Soldier, apparently the original Captain America (and what did that make James, then?), James' best friend, the only person in the world who could give her a run for her money, was in the Avengers Tower, docile, pliant, confused as a newborn fawn. Sure, she'd had to deal with a whole lot of not-normal in her life, but this was a first, even for her.

Tony tossed the folder to the kitchen island and took a big swig of some suspiciously coloured drink. "Tell Cap this building doesn't allow pets."

"I know this is asking a lot, but can you put at least two braincells together to generate some sort of coherent thought?"

"Ouch," Tony said, but he flipped the folder back open to take another look. It was a new briefing packet on the Winter Soldier, painstakingly cobbled together using the additional information she'd recovered from the HYDRA base and SHIELD's own database. It was considerably thicker than the packet she'd given James just a day or two ago, though that wasn't saying much. Most of it was horrifying.

"Are there no measurements for Stabby the Cyborg's abilities?" Tony asked. 

"Not that I could find, no. Anecdotally we've seen him rip car doors right off the hinges like they're made of butter, and punch holes through concrete, but he is -- was -- HYDRA's greatest asset for over seventy years. Most everything is locked down." She thought of the ruckus the Winter Soldier's disappearance must have caused, and grimaced. "And gone by now."

"I could just use Hulk's measurements to make whatever containment unit you want, but anything specific to Stabby is going to need Stabby-specs."

"We can keep him in the Hulk container for now. That isn't an issue." Natasha watched as Tony flipped through the pages again, stopping him on the page with the Winter Soldier's picture. Dull blue eyes stared unseeingly from the page, so devoid of life that the Soldier didn't seem human at all. "He's completely unstable. We have no idea what HYDRA did to keep him contained for so long, but one thing I know for sure is that HYDRA will have programmed trigger words into him. As long as he has those triggers, he's a major liability."

"The hell are trigger words?"

"Command terms. Like for a dog. As soon as someone says those words, he'll do whatever they say, and no amount of James' puppy-dog eyes are going to make him stop."

Tony looked at her suspiciously. "How do you know about this?"

"Shut up, Stark," Natasha said, and Tony raised his hands in mock surrender. "Top priority is unprogramming those triggers from his head, then dealing with whatever the hell's left."

"Humans are not my specialty," Tony said, and Natasha raised an eyebrow at him. "But I know a guy. We can make a de-scrambler, just give me five days, tops."  
Natasha breathed out a quiet sigh of relief. The old scar in her side throbbed faintly, reminding her of what she -- what they were _all_ risking by keeping the Winter Soldier here. 

"You think any of this is going to work out?" Tony said, stopped her as she turned to leave. He'd stopped on the page detailing the step by step of some sort of electroshock torture, recounting the Soldier's pain in bland, uncaring terms. "I mean, seventy years...is the Winter Soldier even human anymore, much less the person Cap remembers?"

"I don't know," Natasha said honestly. "But if you want him gone, you're going to have to convince James that there is no Steve Rogers to be saved from the Soldier. And I don't think that's possible."


	16. (16) aftermath of tws

Tony was in New York when he heard. 

The meeting started at 8:46 in the morning. Tony had spent almost the entire night prior going through the floor plans for the Avengers Tower. The designs were already finalised, and in fact nearly complete, but he’d gotten some new ideas for the floors and had to write them down before he forgot. He got to bed at some point in the a.m. and slept deeply until Pepper, bless her soul, broke in. 

It was a big meeting, Pepper reminded him. A very, very big meeting. Of great importance. They could _not_ screw this up. He had to actually pay attention this time. 

Tony drank his coffee. He assured her that he would. 

“See,” he said, and turned off his phone without even looking at it. “I can be good.”

“Thank you, Tony,” Pepper said. Her hair was combed back into her signature sleek ponytail, her new suit was freshly pressed, and her shoes just polished. She looked as professional and put-together as she always did. But there was a tiny crease in between her brows, and she kept smoothing down her skirt. 

Okay. So this meeting _was_ important. 

It took almost two hours to get to the building. There was a massive traffic jam, because of course there was, and a nervous energy in the air. Tony didn’t care to check; he and Pepper were rushed up to the conference room by an intern with a slight askew tie. Talks commenced soon after. 

It was a very nice day outside. The sun was streaming in through floor to ceiling glass windows, bright and warm but not too hot. Tony could feel the heat of it on his back as he turned his phone over and over in his hand, fighting the urge to take a peek. He’d promised Pepper. Tony snuck a glance at her, seated as always to his right. 

“We have prepared the P&L charts you requested,” one of the men in suits was saying. He waved a hand, and the scrawny intern with a slightly slanted tie hurried forward with the boards. One of the other men in suits noticed the tie and made a face. His eyes darted to Tony, no doubt hoping that he wouldn’t have noticed. Tony stared blandly back. The man coloured and looked away. 

Pepper nudged him. _Be nice_ , her eyes said.

 _I am always nice_ , he responded, and she frowned. 

“As you can see,” the man continued. Tony’s phone lit up in his hand. Pepper shot him a look. 

Tony had shut off his phone completely. He wasn’t supposed to get disturbed unless it was an emergency. 

From: Natasha  
_HAD SOME BAD SASHIMI. OUR PUPPY’S IN THE ER. AT THE OTHER ONE._

Tony frowned down at his phone screen. It was code, of course it was, but StarkPhones were secure. She wouldn’t have texted him in code if something big hadn’t happened. 

_Had some bad sashimi._ Sashimi was seafood, so salmon, eel, squid. Octopus. HYDRA. 

_Our puppy._ Had to be Steve. Steve was injured, and bad. Tony’s mouth thinned. 

_At the other one_...it had to be a place, then. A place that shared a name with another. Washington. Washington, D.C. 

“Excuse me,” he said to the people whose names he couldn’t remember. Pepper stood too, reaching for his arm. He shrugged her off. To Happy, he said: “Get me to DC.”

The flight took an hour. Tony counted every second. 

Natasha was talking quietly to some guy Tony didn’t recognise in the waiting room. She had bandages wrapped around her midriff and a cut on her cheek, altogether more disheveled than he’d ever seen her. Tony shoved past the nurses and stopped in front of her. His hands were trembling. 

“Tell me what happened,” Tony ordered. 

While she talked, Steve hung in between life and death just a few doors down. 

_Steve Rogers can do anything_ , Tony told himself. He sank into one of those horrible blue plastic seats, and ran his fingers through his hair. _Steve Rogers is going to be fine_. 

*

In the end, it took two weeks before Steve Rogers could be considered ‘fine’. 

In that time, Tony sent two generous muffin baskets, one to the board he’d been meeting with that day, and one to Pepper. They could reschedule the meeting, the board said. Is Steve all right? Pepper said. Tony said yes to both. 

Tony donated a couple thousand dollars to the hospital, got them some better waiting room chairs. Just for the heck of it, he sent some money to the Veteran’s Association, some small World War Two veteran’s clubs, and an animals shelter, because why not. He arranged the receipts neatly by Steve’s bedside table, along with some of his favourite books, so that maybe Steve would know that Tony did care, and could be trusted, and would have helped if Steve had just called. 

Tony swallowed down the guilt, and settled in to wait. 

But of course Steve was Steve, and he didn’t wake up the whole two weeks that Tony was there, only opening his eyes the second that Tony got on the plane to New York. 

“Jesus god,” Tony panted, leaning against the doorframe. He’d ran to get there, something he _never_ did, and now he was remembering why. Running _sucked_. 

“Hi,” Steve said, smiling, and Tony forgot to be annoyed. He was striding forward before he could even really think about it, and wrapping Steve into a hug as tightly as he dared. 

“You scared the shit out of me, kid,” Tony said quietly. 

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“Call me next time, okay? Anything you need, I’ll do it. Just don’t...just don’t do that again.”

“I won’t,” Steve promised. He was still a sickly pale colour, his hair limp and greasy, but his eyes were bright with life. Tony couldn’t ask for anything more. 

“You scared the shit out of me,” he repeated, and Steve smiled. 

“Wasn’t all that fun for me either.”

Tony studied him. Physically, Steve looked more like a sixteen year old than ever, diminutive with all the wires and the miles of white sheets around him. But his eyes were as deep and wide as the grieving ocean. Tony thought of Steve’s best friend, by right only eighteen, and clapped a hand on his shoulder. 

“We’ll find him,” he vowed. “I’ll have Jarvis look through every security cam in the world. For now, you just rest.”

Steve rolled his eyes, but he was grinning. “Okay, _dad_ ,” he said, and was asleep in seconds. 

Tony swallowed. He made an aborted movement to sweep the hair off Steve’s forehead, and then shook himself. Tony settled into the chair beside Steve’s bed, keeping one eye on the sleeping boy.

“Jarvis?” He said quietly. “Let’s find Bucky Barnes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> how did i do with the tone and mood of this one? was there any tension? anything i could've done better? feedback is very much appreciated!


	17. a little help from the marx brothers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm not feeling well today, so i'm sorry if this chapter reads weirdly. if you left a comment on the previous chapter, thank you, and i'll reply to it when i can string together a coherent sentence.
> 
> this chapter borrows from the jokes of the marx brothers, and was inspired by this text post: https://iprayforangels.tumblr.com/post/176535838868/the-fact-that-steve-hasnt-told-any-marx-brothers
> 
> one of my favourite marx brothers one-liners is “I’ve had a perfectly wonderful evening. But this wasn’t it.“ the only reason why i'm including it here is because i couldn't find a way to have steve say it in this fic.

“Didn’t Tony _just_ teach you how to use Netflix, like yesterday?”

Steve looked up from his copy of 1Q84. Bruce had recommended it months ago when he heard that Steve was trying to practice his Japanese. Steve had assumed that Bruce was just being helpful until he realised that the book was 900 pages long.

“Yes,” he said. “But I didn’t want to watch Netflix. I wanted to read a book.”

She snorted. “You really are 90 years old.”

Steve turned back to his book. “Outside of a dog, a book is man’s best friend,” he said. 

“Really,” Natasha said dryly.

“Inside of a dog,” he continued. “It’s too dark to read.”

Natasha made a noise of disgust and flounced off. Steve sighed. Maybe he _should_ try out Netflix.

*

“Truth, justice, and patriotism,” Tony sneered. His head wound was still bleeding way too much to be normal, and there was a sluggishness to  
his movements that wasn’t there before. Steve glanced down at his utility belt. They’d already used most of it earlier. If Steve used the rest of it on Tony, he wouldn’t have enough for himself. “Don’t you ever get tired of being so obnoxious all the time?”

It would be fine, Steve decided. He pulled out the roll of gauze and pressed it to Tony’s head, ignoring how the other man struggled. “Those are my principles. If you don’t like them, I have others.”

“What the ’ell are you talking about?” Tony slurred. Steve cursed under his breath. He was going to have some _words_ with Nick Fury as soon as they got out of here.

*

“Come on, you’ve got to have some good war stories,” Clint said. He was sprawled over the back of the armchair in a very uncomfortable looking position, though he looked happy enough. 

Tony perked up. “Yeah! Give us one the history books don’t know.”

Steve swirled the water around in his cup. No one ever wanted to hear about the horrors and the tragedies of the war, nor the quiet moments, in which even strangers understood each other like nobody ever had or would. No, all people wanted to hear about was the violence. Somehow, the kid who’d just wanted to do the right thing had died in ‘45. All people knew about him was the war.

Steve really didn’t want to talk about the war. 

“I shot a Nazi in my pyjamas,” he said. 

Tony’s eyes went wide and Clint let out a low whistle. 

“A midnight ambush?” Thor said, leaning forward in his seat. His interest was clear on his face. “Truly dastardly.”

“Yeah,” Steve said, and sipped his water. “How he got in my pyjamas I’ll never know.”

There was a pause, and then everyone groaned. 

“That’s not funny,” Clint said, scowling. Steve hid his grin behind the rim of his glass. It was kind of funny. 

*

“I don’t think I’ll ever take my bed for granted again,” Sam said, shifting in the plastic hospital chair. It was impossible to get comfortable in those things, Steve knew. He considered himself a bit of a hospital-chair-connoisseur, really, from sitting in one of those things every time one of his teammates got hurt in the field.

“Aw, you really don’t have to stay,” Steve said. He could feel the phantom pains of the chair digging into his bones just looking at Sam.

“Oh, please, what’s that saying? ‘Time flies when you’re having fun’? Anyway, _someone’s_ got to make sure that you don’t jump out of windows or something.”

“Time flies like an arrow. Fruit flies like a banana,” Steve said.

“I might go to jail for strangling Captain America,” Sam said.

*

It took nearly a year for them to find Bucky. Steve knew that it would’ve taken even longer, maybe forever, if Bucky hadn’t wanted to be found. 

But they did find him, and that was all that mattered. They went to New York — neither Steve nor Sam particularly wanted to go back to D.C.. Steve and Bucky moved into a place in Brooklyn, a tiny apartment in a complex that had been around in their time. Sam moved into the Avengers Tower. Bucky wouldn’t have done well in the Tower, assuming that Tony even wanted him there (he didn’t), so the apartment was the perfect compromise. The apartment was in New York, it was cozy, and it was secure. The Avengers made sure of it. And every day that they were there, Steve could see Bucky come alive again. It was more than Steve could have ever dreamed of. 

A couple of months after they moved in, Tony sent a massive package in the mail with no letter. Steve nearly tripped over it when he left for his morning run (the package was up to his knees. Why would the delivery man even bother to try and hide it under their welcome mat?). After letting Bucky inspect the box, they carted it inside and opened it up. 

Somehow, Tony had found hundreds of their things that Steve had just assumed were lost forever. Letters, sketchbooks, magazines and comics, clothing. It was all beautifully preserved, packed within a few old trunks. It must have been Howard’s, Steve knew, and the knowledge brought a pang of longing to Steve’s chest. He pushed it aside. 

“Wow,” Bucky said, clearly trying not to laugh. He was holding up a photo that must’ve been from the ’30s of the Barnes family. Steve’s eyes darted to Bucky’s face, momentarily worried that it would trigger some sort of flashback or something. But Bucky seemed calm, and Steve relaxed a little. 

“I know,” Steve said. The Bucky in the photo was dressed all spiffy in clothes that didn’t really fit right. His smile was missing a tooth. “Your ma really wanted a full family picture done, so you all scrimped and saved for ages just to be able to afford it. Then a year later she had Becca, and all that work was for nothing.”

“Huh.” Bucky gazed at the photo, eyes skipping over the now unfamiliar faces of his family. He snorted. “I looked like an idiot.”

“Well, you may have looked like an idiot,” Steve said. Bucky gave him a sideways glance, already reaching for a cushion in retaliation. “But don’t let that fool you. You really were an idiot.”

Bucky flung the cushion at Steve’s face, and Steve brought his arms up to block it, laughing. 

“Shut it, you punk,” Bucky said, but he was fighting a smile too. “Or I’ll hit you again, don’t think I won’t.”

“What, you’d hit a national treasure like Captain America?”

“No, but I sure as hell don’t see no Captain around here,” Bucky said, and thwacked Steve again for good measure.


	18. deaged pt. 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for such a short and weird chapter! unfortunately i feel worse, not better, since my last update, so this is the best i can do.
> 
> зайчик means 'little hare' in russian. it didn't really make sense to translate it to english, so i just left it in cyrillic. when steve speaks in italics, it means he's speaking a different language. in this case, it's russian.

“We just finished clean-up,” Hawkeye announced, barging out of the elevator with the rest of the Avengers. “Where’s Steve?”

James looked up from where Steve had been showing him his new drawing, and met Hawkeye’s gaze. Hawkeye stopped dead in his tracks.

“And what the hell is _this guy_ doing here?”

“That’s a bad word,” Steve informed him. Hawkeye stared at the child for a couple seconds too long, and then said, “And who are _you_?”

“My name is Steven Grant Rogers,” Steve said, puffing his chest out a little. Hawkeye’s jaw dropped.

“Someone tell me what’s going on,” Falcon said. 

“That’s our Cap?” Hawkeye hissed to Widow, his eyes firmly locked on Steve. The boy in question shifted in place, his gaze darting from James, to Iron Man, to Widow, then back again in a dizzying carousel. He scooted a little closer to James, fingers tightening around his colouring book. James decided then and there that he _hated_ Hawkeye. The churning anger was such a difference from the decades of nothingness as the Soldier that he grabbed onto it and held on. 

“Yes, now can you relax and stop scaring him?” Widow transferred the contents of the pot she’d been stirring to a bowl, and a wonderful smell filled the room. Steve perked up.

“Are you hungry, зайчик?” Widow said without even looking up.

“ _Very very hungry,_ ” Steve said, bouncing in place. Everyone looked up sharply, and Steve hid his face in James’ metal shoulder, giggling. 

“Since _when_ did Cap speak Russian?” Falcon demanded. “Am I the only one who didn’t know this?”

“He did live in a mostly immigrant neighbourhood,” Dr Banner said, but he didn’t seem quite certain, either.

James could have said: Steve’s next door neighbour used to be a Russian dame called Olga. She babysat for them sometimes and baked wonderful bread. James never knew that she cried sometimes in the afternoon because she missed her homeland, but apparently Steve had sat with her every day until she passed, listening to her stories. Sometimes it seemed like Steve knew every damn language in the world, but he’d never bring it up until he was asked because he didn’t like to brag. James could have said that, but he never really knew what was real or not anymore. 

“Who’s Cap?” Steve asked. The Avengers’ debate paused for a second.

“No one,” James said. He hefted Steve to his feet, the boy squealing with joy, and pushed him gently in Widow’s direction. He knew, at least, that Steve’s teammates cared about him, and would not deliberately try to hurt him. It was a relief to know. At least if James were no longer around, Steve would not be alone.


	19. deaged pt. 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> today's chapter is pretty short again, but my fever did break this morning so i can probably get back to longer works by tomorrow! thanks for all the well wishes, they made me feel really happy even when i was otherwise pretty miserable lol

They ended up having to stack a few books on the kitchen chairs for Steve to be able to reach the table, and he teetered on top of them dangerously while he ate his soup. He looked like a true Irish fae, and knowing that this child would one day become Captain America seemed like a cosmic joke. 

“You have awfully good manners,” Natasha said. She was leaning against the counters as she watched Steve eat, a little at a loss now that there wasn’t really anything to do. Steve, for his part, sat with his back ramrod straight, and ate delicately, with a grace that Tony had assumed a kid from the Great Depression wouldn’t have. 

“My pa doesn’t like when I slouch,” Steve said in between mouthfuls of soup. “He gets real mad ‘bout it.”

Clint said, “I thought his dad died from mustard gas in World War One?” 

“No,” Steve and the Soldier said at the same time. All eyes immediately turned to the Soldier, and he blinked. 

“It fit better into the Captain America image,” he said, though he didn’t seem too sure of it himself.

“So...what, his dad came back from the war and lived a nice long life without anyone knowing?” Tony asked. The Soldier shrugged helplessly.

“My pa gets real mad about my posture,” Steve said, like he wasn’t really sure if they were still talking about the same topic anymore, but still wanted to contribute. 

Bruce frowned. “You’re eight years old,” he said. “He gets mad at you when you slouch?”

Steve looked around, like he was expecting his dad to pop out from behind a corner. “My pa gets mad at me a _lot_ ,” he said, and widened his eyes for emphasis. “A lot a lot.”

“Really.” Tony managed. Oblivious to the tension in the room, Steve nodded with all the enthusiasm of a kid at show and tell.

“He’s mean,” Steve confessed, and rubbed at his arm like he was nursing a past injury. Freudian slip or just kids being weird? Tony couldn’t tell, but it didn’t stop the anger from rising quick and fast in his bloodstream. A quick glance around the room showed that he wasn’t the only one. 

“Auntie Nattie, I’m done,” Steve told Natasha abruptly, now thoroughly distracted. She took his bowl away as Thor helped him off the stack of books, and he thanked them in turn before hurrying back over to his colouring book. Tony exchanged a glance with his teammates. Maybe they were just overreacting. Their Steve had never said a bad word about his dad — though actually, that wasn’t saying much. Their Steve never said a bad word about _anybody_. It was a good thing Joseph Rogers (probably) wasn’t alive today, or he’d have a lot of explaining to do.


	20. witch steve prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hi, i'm basically posting this to tell you guys that i'm alive and finally recovered! sorry for going mia for so long, i ended up getting way sicker after my last update and couldn't write for ages. but i'm back and will be updating normally again!! thank you all for the nice comments, i'll be replying to them soon (and i do mean soon this time, since i'm actually better now).

Steve was the first in a line of non-witches to be born a witch. Physically, he looked no different from his late ma — waifish, blond hair and blue eyed, bull-headed about almost anything. It was those blue eyes that gave him away. Where Sarah’s had been like the waves that beat against Inis Mac Neasáin, Steve’s were electric, unnatural, unmistakable. When he’d opened his eyes for the first time in the midwife’s arms, she’d gasped and recoiled. Joseph Rogers had had no choice, really, and he’d killed her with the knife she’d used to cut Steve’s umbilical cord. They’d packed up and left after that. 

And so Steve learned that he was not supposed to be alive.


	21. witch steve pt 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the "unfit" bit is referring to eugenics. apparently by the 1930s eugenics had been scientifically disproved in the US, but it continued to be perpetuated in government and general belief, so i don't think it would've been too out there for steve to know he would've been considered 'unfit'.
> 
> TW for abuse!! i'm sorry i forgot to provide a tw earlier

Steve was eight years old, and had fourteen deaths to his name. Every time his pa killed someone, they had to move, from rocky costal towns to grassy farmlands to ancient woods. Each new home hummed with a different kind of magic. Steve wasn’t allowed to do any magic, of course, but sometimes, when his pa was asleep, Steve would lean in close to the gaps in the windows and take in deep breaths of the Irish magic that not even the English could erase.

Brooklyn did not have any magic.

It seemed impossible, that a place with so many people from so many different places would have no magic at all, but it was true. Where every patch of land in Ireland buzzed with centuries-old magic, like floorboards rattling with footsteps, Brooklyn was dead silent. It felt hollow, like perhaps there used to be magic everywhere and for some reason it was all gone. Steve stumbled as soon as they stepped off the boat, and Joseph Rogers caught him with a hand on his upper arm. 

“Can you not walk right, boy?” He muttered. Steve straightened and tried to pretend to be okay. He did not want to be in this place with the dead magic, and he did not want to be here with his father, who seemed to grow more and more tired of his company with each passing day. But Steve was only eight, and all he ever seemed to be able to do was hurt people, and he was scared. So when Joseph Rogers told him they were staying in America forever, Steve just nodded and said nothing.

*

They moved into a two-bedroom flat just above a medicine shop. Nobody else wanted it because it was supposed to be haunted, but Joseph Rogers was a God-fearing Catholic who didn’t believe in any of that stuff, and Steve knew that there were no such thing as ghosts. The place was dusty, and dark, and sound travelled real easy from the shops below. But it was cheap and it was close to a bar, and that was all Joseph Rogers really needed to know before signing their lease.

Steve trailed his finger along the windowsill, kicking up dust, and wanted nothing more than the endless expanse of greenery and magic that he was used to. The dust made the air feel too thick to breathe, but Steve figured that it would get better after they cleaned up a little. But he only seemed to get sicker.

Joseph Rogers started spending more and more time at the docks just so Steve could get the medicine he needed. When he wasn’t working, he was drinking; either way he wasn’t around. 

Steve spent most of his days now in bed. He’d never so much as caught a cold back home, but here he grew gaunt and weak and caught every bug that was going around. It was beyond miserable, but at least his room had a good view of the street. Steve could spend hours huddled up by the window watching all the people go by. 

There were the two Russians who’d drink in broad daylight and talk loudly in their language, the Italians and their molls, the pretty dame and her ma from somewhere Steve had never even heard of, and the Barnes family who passed Steve’s window every Sunday on the way to church. Steve and his father had stopped going to church long enough that Steve’s Sunday best was now rags, but the Barnes family were one of the few who still looked spiffy every Sunday. They had a boy who looked about Steve’s age, and Steve entertained the idea that maybe, if he weren’t sick all the time, the Barnes boy would kick a ball around the street with him. But that was probably just wishful thinking. All the boys on the street wanted to be the Barnes boy’s friend, it seemed. No way would he choose Steve over the other boys.

*

Joseph Rogers started bringing his giggle water into the house, and some nights he’d stay sitting at the kitchen table even after Steve went to bed, drinking till dawn. 

One night, Steve lay awake listening to the clink of the bottle against the table. Eventually, when the bottle was empty, Steve heard his father begin to make his way to bed. 

He stopped in the doorway, a black figure against the yawn of the empty corridor. Even drifting between lucidity and unconsciousness, Steve could smell the liquor on his body.

“Why don’t you just die, then,” Joseph Rogers slurred.

Steve lay very still, feeling worlds away from the laughter on the street. He wanted his mom, but he’d killed her before he could even see her face.

*

Steve got sick, really sick, a week before his tenth birthday, and so did everyone else. 

It was scarlet fever, the doctor said. He’d looked at Joseph Rogers with sympathy he didn’t need, and said that perhaps he ought to make a call to their priest.

Joseph Rogers did not do that, and Steve did not die. With a bullheadedness that he liked to think he inherited from his ma, Steve clawed his way back from death’s door. Even though all the doctors and the posters said that people like Steve were unfit, he was the one who lived.

Once Steve was well enough to resume his business of people watching, he realised that there weren’t many people to watch anymore. None of the kids were allowed to go out and play, not even the Barnes boy who never got sick. Steve had nearly given up hope of ever seeing anyone ever again when, real early one morning, he heard quick little footsteps to the medicine shop just under their flat. 

Steve sat up real quick and peered out his window. Just below him was the Barnes boy, clutching a fistful of coins. It was strange to see him frown.

“Okay, Jesus,” the boy muttered, and Steve bit the corner of his blanket so he wouldn’t make a sound. “Let’s you and me make a deal, okay? I have a little sister called Becca, and she’s real sick, but we don’t got enough medicine for her to get better. So I promise, if you make this medicine really really really good, and she gets better, then I won’t get into any trouble for a week. A whole week! I cross my heart and hope to die.” The Barnes boy looked up at the sky, squinting against the glare of the sun, and said, “I promised, so you gotta promise too, okay? You have to make my little sister okay again.”

And Steve…Steve didn’t really know what he did. But he couldn’t just stand by and do nothing, not when he’d heard the Barnes boy’s prayer, so as he watched the Barnes boy walk away, Steve _wished_.

The boy stumbled, as if something in his paper bag had suddenly doubled in size. He stopped and looked around suspiciously, but he never looked up and Steve didn’t call out to him. Then he tightened his hold on his sister’s medicine and scampered away.

*

Steve was woken up at three in the morning by the sound of someone messing with the front door. Any drowsiness he felt was instantly replaced with ice cold fear, and he lay frozen in bed, too afraid to move.

“Shit,” he heard Joseph Rogers mutter, and annoyance flared up suddenly in Steve’s chest. The door swung open and Joseph Rogers stumbled in, kicking off his shoes and tripping over the rug. “Steve!”

Steve sat up and went to go help his father to the couch. The man reeked of alcohol, and Steve wrinkled his nose.

“Steve,” his father slurred. He put one calloused paw to Steve’s face, and then clumsily pushed him away. Joseph Rogers lay sprawled on the couch, one shoe still halfway on his foot, and watched as Steve stumbled and straightened. 

The bottle to Steve’s cheek was sudden and unexpected. Sharp pain lit up the side of his face like an explosion, and Steve fell to the ground so hard that the chatter downstairs momentarily ceased.

“ _Witch_ ,” Joseph Rogers spit. “Should’ve killed you the second you were born.”

And Steve wished that Joseph Rogers would die.


	22. steve as the winter soldier pt. 3

For about three days, James sat in that containment cell with Steve. Nothing in this universe or beyond could have made him leave, but maybe it would have been better if he had. Nothing James did seemed right. Everything he did only seemed to make Steve upset, or confused, or both. Now that Steve had mostly accepted that James wasn't his handler, he viewed James as his captor. The fact that this new Steve only knew those two types of people made James want to hit something very hard. 

The first day, Banner had brought up some trays of food for them both. JARVIS had managed to get a scan of Steve's vitals, and Banner had prepared a meal tailored towards that. He'd brought both trays to the cell, only barely stepping inside before leaving as quickly as possible. Still, Steve had pressed himself up against the far end of the containment cell until Banner had gone and then some, body tensed like he was preparing for pain. James had to take a deep breath and force a smile, pretending that they were both the same Bucky and Steve from back when taking care of Steve was just something that Bucky did, always. 

"I bet you're hungry," he said. He pushed one of the trays closer to where Steve was, dipping his head encouragingly. Steve eyed him warily, but didn’t move. “It’s for you,” James tried. Steve looked down at the tray of food almost longingly, then away.

"The Soldier does not get human foods," he recited quietly, matter-of-factly. James furrowed his brow.

"What do you mean you don't get human foods?" He asked. Steve darted a glance at him, like he was afraid he'd done something wrong.

"The Soldier receives a blend of essential nutrients for optimal functioning at 0500 hours and 1800 hours once removed from the cryogenics chamber," Steve said, eyes flicking to and away from James to gauge his reaction, but never being able to hold his gaze (or perhaps having been conditioned not to look directly at his handlers, _christ_ ). James swallowed down the disgust and the rage, and instead pushed the tray closer to Steve.

"Well, that was back then," he said, aiming for light and most likely failing miserably. "You can eat whatever you want, now, buddy. This one's all yours. I definitely can't finish them both, and Banner – he's not really a doctor or a nutritionist but he kinda functions like one here – will be pretty sad if we don't finish the food he made us. He takes a lot of pride in his cooking, he'll take it personally if we don't return the plates licked clean."

James was completely rambling at that point, and Steve looked up at him through his lashes, body curled into a protective ball. But maybe Steve was actually too hungry to resist, or too tired to keep second-guessing James' intentions, because as soon as James looked away, Steve was loping over to the tray. He tugged the tray over to himself, never letting himself get within arm's length of James, and then retreated just as quickly as he came. He pressed himself back up against the wall, this time with the tray held protectively to his chest, like he was afraid someone would take it away from him. James pretended not to notice, and tore his bread roll apart like it was HYDRA themselves.

"Food's a lot better than when we were kids," James said faux-casually. He snuck a glance at Steve, hoping for _some_ sort of a sign that Steve remembered, or even felt anything other than fear and wariness in this new century. There was nothing except for a dip in his brow as Steve examined the contents of the tray, dipping a metal finger into the mashed peas and sniffing it. James scooped up a spoonful of his own peas and stuffed it into his mouth. It just tasted like peas, only worse, but he still made a sound like it was the tastiest thing he'd ever eaten. He felt Steve glance at him, and then saw him pop his finger into his mouth. "I mean, this isn't great, but we used to just boil everything, no seasoning or anything. Most anything is better than that, I think. Oh!" James actually grinned then, happier with his memories than he ever was in the present day. "Your ma made peanut butter stuffed onions, once. That was _foul_ , but we ate it anyway. Certainly could've been doing worse. Might not have been eating at all."

"I don't remember that," Steve said. He'd said it so quietly he probably didn't expect James to be able to hear it at all, but Zola had done some weird things to him back in '43, and better eardrums was one of the effects.

"That's okay," James rushed to say, and Steve jerked a little in surprise. "It's fine if you don't remember nothing at all. I remember enough for the both of us."

For a second it looked like speaking up was the wrong thing to do. Then Steve said, "You say you're not my handler. I have no mission. And you say you remember things about me that I don't." Steve looked at James, right in the eyes, and in that instant James saw his Steve superimposed over this Steve, one in the same despite how much had changed. "Who are you?"

James swallowed. "I'm James Buchanan Barnes, but you always called me Bucky. We'd known each other since we were kids, grown up together. We took care of each other."

"Who am I?"

"You're the bravest, kindest, best person I've ever known," James said. There was a rap on the door, and he looked up to see Romanoff's face in the glass. "You're my best friend."

Steve had lapsed back into silence, glowering into his food, and James sighed.

"I'll be back," he promised. Steve didn't even look up as he left.

Romanoff had her hip cocked and was tapping her foot on the ground by the time James disengaged all the locks and got outside. She raised an eyebrow at his dishevelled appearance. 

"Well, where have _you_ been?" He said.

“Cleaning up your mess,” she snarked. “Had to go back and complete the mission. They kept all their files in one spot like idiots, so we have a lot of new info.” At that she hesitated, face twisted up into a grimace. “About the Winter Soldier. It – it isn’t pretty, James, I feel like you should know.”

James felt his stomach sink, fear weighing it down like a bag of rocks. “Let me see,” he said, faking bravery he didn’t really feel.

Romanoff looked at him, seeing all the cracks within his façade.

“It isn’t pretty,” she repeated.

“I know. But they've done something to him and I have to know what.”

Sighing, Romanoff pulled out a thin manila folder from behind her back and handed it to him. “I made a summary of the most important details. Tony and Banner have the scientific bits, and they’re trying to make sense of it all.”

James stared down at the folder, deceivingly lightweight. In his hands, knowing what it contained, it felt like he was holding the weight of the world. 

“Thank you, Romanoff.” He looked up at her and tried to muster up a smile. “I owe you a lot for this.”

She gave him the famous Black Widow smirk. "I know," she said, and then spun on her heel and slipped into the elevator with a supernatural grace. She wiggled her fingers at him as the elevator doors shut, and he waved back, trying not to look as petrified as he felt. Once she was gone, the smile dropped off James’ face and he stared down at the folder. He turned it over in his hands, fingering the pages, wanting to devour every last detail in there so he could fix everything that HYDRA had done to his Steve, and also wanting to throw the damn thing off the side of the building and hoping to never see it again. If he read all the gory details, then he wouldn't be able to hide from the weight of his failures anymore. James didn't know if he could do that.

Through the one-way glass panels on the side of the containment cell, he could still see Steve huddled up against the wall. He'd only finished eating about half of the tray in the time that James was gone and was messing around with the rest of it. Only, as James watched, Steve wasn't playing with the food, he was carefully portioning out the food to stuff into little hidden pockets for later. Food hoarding wasn't anything new for Steve, or at least not for the Steve that Bucky had once known, but something about this felt different. Maybe it was because Steve's actions weren't careful and practical like they had been during the Depression and the war, instead laced with fear. Or maybe because it was the future, a time when grocery stores were the size of apartment floors, when people could buy pineapples from Costa Rica and longans from Thailand, and medicine for asthma was available to everyone and no one died from tuberculosis anymore and James had always thought that in the future they'd be _happy_.

But maybe that was asking too much. Their lives had always been a tragedy. Why should it change now? James headed back into the cell, taking a little longer to key in the various codes than he needed to. The Steve waiting for him had lost his earlier rawness, and in the smooth blankness of his face James couldn't recognise him at all. 

"That was Rom -- the Black Widow," James said, as if he weren't functionally talking to a wall at this point. "She found -- " he swallowed. "She found some files HYDRA had on you." He flipped the folder around and held it out to Steve. The other man finally looked up from where he was pretending to be interested in the salted almonds, looked at the folder, and then at James, and then back at the folder. "I don't feel good about reading about my friend in the third person," James explained, smiling weakly. "It's your files. You should have them – if you want them."

"I don't understand," Steve said. He sounded like he was going to cry. "Is this a test?"

"No!" James said, baffled. "Why would this be a test?"

"Please just give me my mission," Steve said. 

"I don't know, I don't know what you want from me," Steve said. "Please don't do this to me."

"Do what?"

"Be kind," Steve said.

James felt his legs give out, and he sank to the ground in front of Steve. "I'm sorry," he said, forcing the words out through the tears. "If I hadn't let you fall...it should've been me. This is my fault. I failed you. You never deserved this."

Steve looked at him with those guileless blue eyes, the only part of him that even remotely resembled the skinny blond kid James had met all those years ago, and James couldn't face him. So he did what he did best and ran.


	23. steve as the winter soldier pt. 4

It wouldn't have been right to leave Steve there all alone; even if James knew Steve would be safe, Steve didn't, and James was about the only person who Steve at least recognised. So, a few hours later, James let himself back into the containment cell with his tail between his legs. Steve's head snapped up as he entered, and James could've almost sworn that a look of relief flitted across Steve's face if relief were not an emotion that the Winter Soldier could never have.

"Hey," James said, and tried a smile. "I brought dinner."

In the few hours that he'd been gone, Steve had eaten (or hidden) James' lunch. Both trays were sparkling clean, and James, unbidden, remembered the offhand comment he'd made earlier about Banner expecting the plates to be licked clean. He felt the familiar self-loathing rise in his throat and he swallowed it down. He couldn't afford to fall down that rabbit hole again, at least not while Steve was still, in some ways, depending on him for stability. He'd just have to remember to do better. James reached for the empty trays, to stack them up and set them aside, and Steve flinched almost imperceptibly at the action.

"It's okay, I wasn't hungry anyway," James said immediately, alarmed. The familiar words might've made him smile, if he hadn't hoped that they would've had more than enough food after the war. "You can eat as much as you want." He set down the two plates, balanced precariously on one arm. Though he was trying to be subtle, Steve's eyes clearly zeroed in on the roast beef, mashed potatoes, and butter carrots piled high on both plates, courtesy of Stark's private chef. James pushed one plate towards Steve, which he didn't touch, and pulled out two sets of knives and forks from his pocket. It was a truly terrible idea, that much had been told to him by every present member of the Avengers in the Tower, but James knew two truths. One, that the alley cats that Steve had loved so much only came when Steve wasn't afraid. And two, that Steve would never hurt him. So against every piece of advice he'd been given, James slid the knife and fork over to Steve.  
The look on Steve's face was almost comical in his disbelief. He looked down at the steak knife, then back at James.

"It's a little hard to cut roast beef with a spoon," James said conversationally. He pulled his plate closer and started meticulously cutting up his food. "That one's yours, by the way. I figure this'll taste better than a 'blend of essential nutrients for optimal functioning', or whatever."

"But...the knife," Steve said. He slowly extended a foot, and nudged the offending objects towards James. 

"Knife and fork kind of go together," James said.

Steve sucked his lower lip just a little into his mouth, white teeth biting down while he thought. "I could hurt you," Steve said.

"But you won't," James said, faking a confidence he really didn't know if he felt. Because his Steve would never hurt him, but this Steve wasn't _his_ Steve, at least not right now. If this Steve snapped, and tried to make his insides outsides with a steak knife, James would be a little screwed. "Right?"

"I don't want to hurt anyone," Steve said. It sounded just like something his Steve would say, and a tidal wave of memories and what-ifs flooded his brain. James lifted his head and smiled at this Steve.

"You won't," he said. "I know you won't. You don't have to hurt anyone ever again. Now come on," he dipped his head at Steve's plate. "Your food's getting cold."

Steve considered that for a moment, before he lunged forward and nabbed the plate, hugging it to himself as he returned to his position at the back of the cell. If James weren't pretty sure he was being delusional, he could've sworn that Steve looked happy, eating what might've been his first hot meal in decades.

*

Things only got better from there. They had to transfer Steve to another cell, one with an actual bed and facilities, at least until Stark and Banner and their smart friends figured out a way to make sure Steve wouldn't go all Winter Soldier on them. The whole team had acted as an escort for Steve, but the man himself went willingly, with no sign of the Winter Soldier anywhere, and just seemed mostly happy to have a bed to himself. That _had_ to be a good sign.

So James would come in every morning with breakfast and a book, or a board game, and recently with one of those pad things that could play videos and movies. He'd get them both lunch and dinner, sprinkle in a few do-you-remembers, and then bid him goodnight. And Steve, for his part, remained calm and docile, occasionally wrinkling his brow and tentatively asking a few questions when he needed clarification on a memory that he couldn't quite remember. 

At one point, Stark had wanted a scan of Steve's arm, and Banner wanted to do an assessment on his vitals. James, Romanoff, and Barton had escorted Steve to their lab, even though Steve continued to be more curious than violent with an absurd number of cuffs on. Barton and Romanoff kept a fair distance from Steve, even with weapons pointed directly at his head, and James scowled at them. He put a hand at Steve's elbow, pointedly sticking close to his side, and pretended not to notice Steve looking at him wide-eyed.

Stark's lab was in its typical state of disarray, or "organised chaos" as he liked to put it. James liked to call it what it was – a disaster. He kept having to stop and shove things out of Steve's way, because with his feet cuffed Steve couldn't do much more than shuffle. 

"All right, I get to go first," Stark announced. He was dressed in his typical stained band t-shirt and jeans, but James could see the suitcase leaning inconspicuously against a chair behind him. Stark was a jerk approximately ninety per cent of the time, but he had his moments. Not doing the examination on the Winter Soldier in his full Iron Man get-up simply because the Soldier happened to be James' friend, was one of those moments. Stark patted his workstation. "Up you go, Stabby the Snowman." James rolled his eyes so hard he could almost see the inside of his skull. Still, as annoying as Tony could be, there wasn’t anyone else James would trust more with Steve’s safety. He stepped to the side so Tony could work, not missing the way Steve's eyes widened just a fraction at the distance.

Steve sat stiffly the whole time Stark scanned him, and he tensed even further when Stark waved aside the machines to take a closer look at the arm himself. James tried to avoid looking at the arm for too long by keeping his gaze on Steve's face, and he didn't miss the way Steve seemed to brace himself every time Stark started poking around. 

"Looks like a terrible job," Stark said, peeking into the intersection where the arm was joined to Steve's body. His shoulder was a mess of scar tissue, and James clenched his fists. "Obviously, considering it's HYDRA. Can't believe it doesn't hurt."

The thought struck them all at the same time, and Stark leaned back to look at Steve directly in the eyes. "Does it hurt?"

"Still at a functional level," Steve said. Or was it the Winter Soldier speaking? Because for the first time James was realising that couldn’t recognise the man wearing Steve’s face at all.

“Not what I asked,” Tony said. “Does it hurt? Any pain, discomfort?”

Steve’s eyes darted from Tony’s face to Bucky’s, barely managing to look them in the eyes before looking away. “Do not understand the perimeters of the question,” he said.

Tony and Bucky exchanged a glance. Tony sighed. “Okay, never mind. Let me just take a closer look, and we’ll let Brucey over there have his fun.”

At that, Bucky saw Steve’s shoulder muscles tense ever so slightly before Steve deliberately relaxed. Tony, engrossed in poking around Steve’s shoulder, didn’t seem to notice. 

“Hey,” James said, and Tony looked up. “Just…can you tone it down a little? It’s just a quick check up, right? Do you need all of – ” He waved his hands a little, unable to properly describe the machinery that Tony constantly had around. “This?”

Tony opened his mouth, no doubt to say something insulting, then looked at Steve and closed it. 

“Toning down costs fifty cents extra, sour cream is free,” he said, in the way that James knew was some sort of modern day reference he wasn’t getting. Still, Tony put down the screwdriver so that Steve could see that his hands were empty.

"I won't touch you, okay?" Tony said, addressing Steve this time. "I'll just have JARVIS do a scan of your arm, then I can figure out what's wrong with it and fix it. What do you say?"

Steve didn't respond, and Tony repeated, "Is that okay with you, Steve?" The man in question only stared back at them, equally as confused as they were. Finally, Natasha sighed.

"Soldier," she said, and Steve snapped to attention. "Stark's going to do a scan of your arm. You are to sit still and not move. If you feel any pain or discomfort you are to tell us immediately, is that clear?"

"Clear," Steve said, and then became so still it was almost like he had turned to stone.

"Well that's creepy," Tony said. But he dutifully pulled up some screens James couldn't understand to take whatever scans he needed. The whole process took about three minutes, tops, and James didn't even think he saw Steve blink, or breathe. It was creepy to all of them, as Tony said, just on account of how unnatural it was, but to James it was so much worse. The Steve he'd known just a few months ago, subtracting the years in the ice, never stopped moving. Steve was always bouncing his leg, or tapping his fingers, or curling and uncurling his toes. It used to get him in trouble at the orphanage all the time, and Steve would always try to sit on his hands at Sunday mass so as to not be disrespectful, but nothing ever worked. Steve had just always been fidgety since the day James met him. What had HYDRA done to make him like this?

"Hey," Tony said, and leaned closer to Steve's arm. "What's –"

Almost immediately, Steve flinched and jerked away from Tony. James wasn't proud of it, but his first thought was that Steve had finally snapped and they were all screwed. Both Barton and Natasha had their weapons pointed at him, and James had a brief moment of panic, wondering if, if push came to shove, he would actually ever be able to defend himself from Steve. But one look at Steve's eyes and James knew, with no small amount of relief, that it was still Steve. James shoved everyone aside to stand by Steve. He put a hand on Steve's human arm without thinking, just a force of habit, and Natasha made a sound of protest. James would've pulled away if it weren't for Steve looking up and at him like he was the only anchor in a sea of helplessness. Actually, that was probably exactly what James was, and that was a terrible thought.

"Are you okay?" James asked lowly. "Did Stark hurt you?"

Steve hesitated. His eyes darted towards Tony then back to James.

"It's okay to say if he hurt you. We just want to know so that he won't do it again, if possible."

Steve looked back to Tony and the other Avengers, and what he saw must've convinced him because he dipped his head just the barest amount and said, "It...did not feel comfortable. But I am still functional," he added quickly. James' heart felt like it was cracking into pieces, but he smiled and said, "Okay. Thank you for telling us, Steve."

Steve looked at him, a mixture of bafflement and awe and something else that James could not describe in his eyes. He looked like a strange in-between of Bucky’s Steve and the Winter Soldier, a half-formed being that did not yet exist, and James could not resist the urge to touch his fingertips to the back of Steve’s flesh hand.

“I think I’ve got enough info for now,” Tony interrupted. “Bruce?”

“I’m really not this kind of doctor,” Banner sighed, but still the long-suffering scientist stepped forward with his signature notepad. “Best I can do is compare his stats – yours, Steve – to James’, just as a gauge. The more data we collect, the better your medical file will be, and the better we can treat you in the future. For now, though…”

“It’ll be quick, right?” James asked. His eyes were still fixed on Steve, noting the fine lines of discomfort amidst the eerie blankness of his face. He wouldn’t have been able to look away if he wanted to.

“I’ll be as quick as I can,” Banner promised. He turned to Steve and smiled. “Then you’ll be free to go.”

The corners of Steve’s mouth tightened. 

“What is it?” James asked immediately. Steve glanced at him but didn’t otherwise respond. “Does something hurt?”

Steve seemed to hesitate, then said, speaking every word like he was reluctant to let them go, “After, I will go…to…The Chair?”

They were silent for a moment, trying to understand.

“The…chair,” James said. Steve dipped his head like that made any sense. James exchanged glances with the rest of them, but no one seemed any more informed than he was.

“Okay, I know chairs are great and all, but besides a lack of back support I really don’t think my workstation is so bad – ow!”

“Shut up, Stark,” Romanoff said. James turned back to Steve.

“If you want a chair, you can have as many as you’d like,” James said, and Steve’s eyes widened. “Or none, no chairs, tables only,” James tacked on immediately. He looked helplessly at Romanoff, the only one who sort of knew about the Winter Soldier before they’d actually found him, but she looked just as lost as he was.

“No Chair?” Steve asked searchingly.

“I will personally remove all chairs from this plane of existence if you explain what’s going on,” Tony said. “Because frankly I’m feeling a little left out.”

“Maintenance,” Steve said reluctantly. “For when I am faulty. But current processing levels are at 76%! I – the Soldier is still functional.”

“That doesn’t – ” Tony began.

“Wait,” James said, thinking hard. He could see the moment when it dawned on Romanoff, too. “At the HYDRA base, there was this weird chair thing, with loads of wires hooked up to it. You’re talking about that chair, not just any old chair, right?”

Steve dipped his head ever so slightly, wide blue eyes peeking up at James through sweeping lashes.

“And functional means…”

“Obedient, loyal to HYDRA. Or at least incapable of resisting, not knowing why to _not_ obey HYDRA,” Romanoff finished. Her eyes darted to James, worried. “Not remembering why.”

“Oh, shit,” Tony said. He snuck a glance at James, and took a few steps back. James had no idea why. He was fine. He was just thinking about how HYDRA had stolen his Steve’s memories, how afraid Steve was of that damn chair, how Steve couldn’t understand being given a choice or how to tell them when something hurt and how Bucky had found him frozen and looking near death. 

“James, don’t,” he heard Romanoff say. He whirled around and shoved past her. Once upon a time Steve would’ve called him a dumbass and told him to quit acting like a white knight, but he wasn’t going to do that now, was he? No, because his Steve was dead. And HYDRA was the one who killed him.


	24. deaged pt. 5

Steve probably would’ve been happy to keep colouring for days if Natasha hadn’t reminded them that kids had bedtimes. James seriously doubted that she didn’t have powers; how else did she seem to know _everything_?

“Oh _noooo_ ,” Steve said, dragging out the last syllable as he batted Widow’s hands away. “I don’t wanna go to bed yet. I’m not tired!”

“You’re going to be tired soon,” Widow said, but Steve was unconvinced. He held up his colouring book like a shield between himself and Widow, giggling. 

“Don’t want to!” Steve said. He paused, looking guilty, and then tacked on a “Thank you” even though she hadn’t agreed to anything.

Widow shook her head, but she was clearly fighting a smile. If James could remember how to smile he’d probably be doing that, too. 

Falcon took a few steps forward, and Steve’s eyes flicked to him.

“How about I show you something cool?” Falcon said. Steve eyed him warily, but he was sitting up real straight in the way that he did when he was interested. James…had no idea why he knew that.

“Like what?” Steve asked.

“Have you ever had a bubble bath?” 

Steve lit up at that, suspicions sufficiently eased. “I heard about those!” He said, beaming. “Do I get to see one for real?”

“Even better,” Falcon said, leaning in conspiratorially. Steve leaned forward too, lowering his makeshift shield. James was impressed despite himself. “You get to _have_ a bubble bath.”

Steve’s eyes went wide, and he mouthed “Wow” to himself. When Falcon stretched out a hand, Steve took it without hesitation, and the two trotted off towards the bathroom. James unfolded himself from where he’d been sitting cross-legged next to Steve and followed. Almost immediately there was a shuffle of movement behind him, and he heard someone hiss, “If he’s going, then I’m going, too.” When they got to the bathroom, James made sure to plant himself right next to Steve, and felt a little vindictive thrill when everyone had to shuffle around him.

“This is _real_ pretty,” Steve said. He didn’t seem too bothered as Falcon rid him of his now oversized suit; James guessed that constant doctor’s visits had rid Steve of any shame.

“Of course it is,” Iron Man said. “It’s all handmade in Italy, cost me a small fortune but what can you do, right?”

“Is he serious?” Hawkeye said to Black Widow.

“Just ignore him,” she advised. Falcon deposited Steve into the massive tub, and Steve squealed.

“How about a bath bomb?” Falcon said. He’d barely even finished his sentence before a hidden drawer in the wall was sliding open, filled with brightly coloured bath bombs. Steve startled. 

“How about the red one?” Widow suggested. She crossed the room and plucked out a bright red bath bomb that was shaped like a cherry. She held it out to Steve, and he took it, though he was frowning slightly. The bath bomb fizzled on contact with his wet hands, and he gasped.

 _He’s colourblind_ , a voice in James’ head whispered. It was a woman’s voice, lilting with a slight accent, and James knew, somehow, that it was Mrs Rogers. He remembered now – Steve could never really tell apart reds, or pinks, or greens, but he saw yellow and blues like Bucky did. This was important, James could feel it, but for the life of him he didn’t know why.

“Wait,” he said, before he could think too much about it. The Avengers gave him a wide berth as he walked by, but James tried to ignore how that made him feel. Taking the red bath bomb away from Steve, he replaced it with a deep blue one. “Try this one.”

“Um, why?” Hawkeye said, even as Steve brightened. 

“Steve’s colourblind,” Widow guessed. James kept his gaze fixed on Steve, who was having an absolute ball now that he wasn’t looking at muddy brown water. “He’s got protanopia.”

It was seriously not normal how Widow seemed to know _everything_.

“So you couldn’t remember your own name a few months ago, now you remember the specific type of colourblindness that he has,” Iron Man said. “Really.”

James could’ve asked what Iron Man was even trying to imply. He could’ve said that some days, he would spend hours just sitting alone, going through everything that he remembered so he wouldn’t forget. He could’ve said that some days he hardly dared to step foot outside his bunker because everything triggered old memories for him.

Thankfully, he didn’t get to say any of that. 

“Hey,” Doctor Banner said gently. “You okay, Steve?”

Bucky turned immediately, cursing himself for getting distracted by _Iron Man_ , of all people. Steve was unharmed, thank god, but pouting at the blue coloured water.

“I wish Bucky was here,” he said, swishing the bubbles around half-heartedly. “Bucky _loves_ this kinda stuff.” 

“Does he now,” Iron Man said.

Steve nodded seriously. “He likes the future. I’ve never even _heard_ of bath bombs until now so I bet he’s never seen ‘em, either.”

Huh. So he liked the future. James hadn’t known that before.

“I can’t wait to see him again,” Steve continued. “And my ma.” He turned to look up at everyone, and James froze. A quick glance around the room showed that he wasn’t the only one. “I really like it here, but d’you know when I get to go home?”

“Uh,” Hawkeye said. Falcon looked around at all of them with wide eyes, and then cleared his throat.

“Why…I mean…why do you think you’re staying with us for now?”

“Cause my ma’s sick,” Steve replied matter-of-factly. “So I gotta stay with you till she gets better.”

“Uh, right,” Iron Man managed. “Right. That’s exactly what this is.”

“Does that happen a lot?” Dr Banner asked. It was hard to imagine this meek, soft-eyed man could become the Hulk. If James hadn’t collected the data on the Avengers himself, he would never have believed it. “Your mom getting sick, and you staying with some of her…friends?”

“Uh huh,” Steve said. “ _All_ the time. But it’s okay, ‘cause she always gets better and comes to get me after. This is the nicest place I’ve ever seen,” he added, and James blinked at the sudden change in subject.

“She usually leave you with strangers?” Iron Man said, and James bristled at the accusations in his tone. He couldn’t remember much about Sarah Rogers, but he remembered enough to know that Iron Man was wrong about her.

Steve didn’t seem to notice. “I stay with Bucky, mostly. But sometimes I can’t. One time I stayed with the nuns.” He wrinkled his nose. “I’m glad I get to stay here this time.”

“I’m glad you like it here,” Dr Banner said, but he’d barely even finished his sentence before Widow was cutting in.

“You’ll be staying here with us for just a few days, all right?” She said. “Then you can go home and see Bucky and your mom.”

Steve would (hopefully) be back to normal within a few days. Then they wouldn’t have to deal with any hard questions about Steve’s mom or Steve’s Bucky. Still, James felt a little twinge of regret that Steve was never going to see either of those people ever again. The universe was far too cruel to a kid who only ever wanted to do the right thing. 

*

Steve started yawning before he was even out of the bath. Widow, the closest in size to Steve out of all of them, loaned him some clothes. The shirt was still constantly slipping off of Steve’s bony shoulders, though he didn’t seem to mind. He had latched on to James while Falcon blow-dried his hair, and seemed perfectly content to be held while he dozed. James…wasn’t sure how to feel about it all.

Perhaps it was to be expected, then, when Steve refused to be separated from James for bedtime. He tucked his face into the crook of James’ neck, still a little damp from his bath, and refused to let go. 

“I’ll stay with them,” Falcon told the other Avengers. “All three of us can stay in one of the guest rooms for tonight. If anything happens JARVIS can sound the alarm, right?”

Nobody looked happy about it, but in the end Steve got his way. They were directed to one of the many rooms lining the corridors, and if James was a lesser man he’d be pretty smug about the look on Iron Man’s face.

“How are we gonna do this?” Falcon asked. The room only had a single bed, with enough room for one adult (and perhaps a kid, too). James and Falcon stared at it. 

Steve had woken up at some point during the negotiations, and he squirmed till James set him down. He squinted up at James with a look that was eerily similar to Captain America.

“ _You_ gotta lie down,” he ordered. James had no idea what Steve wanted, but disobeying the kid wasn’t even a thought that crossed his mind. He lay down on the bed as Falcon watched in amusement.

“Guess I’m taking the floor, then,” the other man drawled, taking a seat on the floor facing the bed. James knew he wouldn’t be sleeping, instead monitoring every movement that James made during the night. It made his skin crawl. 

Once James had arranged himself to Steve’s liking, Steve clambered over James’ body and wedged himself into the space between James’ left arm and his body.

“Steve – ” James began. He didn’t know what he wanted to say; he just knew that the thought of Steve putting himself so close to the most dangerous weapon in the room, the thought of Steve touching the Arm, was enough to make James want to throw up.

“My ma sings when I can’t sleep,” Steve interrupted, looking up at James expectantly.

“I…don’t know any songs.”

Steve shrugged, and lay his head on the Arm. He was already yawning. “’S okay. Ma doesn’t know the words sometimes too.”

Clearly Steve wasn’t going to take no for an answer. James pulled out all the bits and pieces of memories in his brain, sifting through them for a song, and found a memory tinged with fear and love and hunger. He could feel Falcon staring, so he closed his eyes.

James started off humming. He wasn’t quite sure of what he was singing or how the song was supposed to go. Steve was a ball of warmth by his side. Slowly, the lyrics were coming back to him, and he sang them as they came.

“The memories will never part,” he sang. “Every day of my life I live just for you.”

“I know this one,” Steve whispered. Widow’s shirt was starting to slip off his tiny frame, and James adjusted the material so he wouldn’t get cold.

“I’m just hoping some day you’ll return, and I’ll wait dear, every day of my life.”

James looked down at Steve. The light of the city was glancing off the Arm, but Steve didn’t seem bothered at all. He blinked up at James with big blue eyes that were starting to droop with sleep.

“I’ll wait for you dear, every day of my life.”

The memories crawled back to him unbidden: of Bucky sitting outside Steve’s door when the latter was sick with who knows what, this same song playing on the radio in the kitchen; of Steve and Bucky huddled down low to watch the television in their neighbour’s house; of Mrs Rogers stinking of death, standing at the stove making them hot milk, and Bucky knowing that she was going to die.

James did not sleep that night. He lay awake beside Steve, the child curled up on the Arm and snoring away, and he filed away every single memory that rose during the night. He didn’t remember much, but everything that he knew started and ended with Steve Rogers. 

James was not naïve enough to think that he could be saved. But he knew that there was some part of him that was still Bucky Barnes. And if Steve wanted to have Bucky back, then James would tear himself apart piece by piece to give Steve what he wanted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please tell me if this reads as too choppy! it's 1:53am where i am right now and i just had to get a chapter out since i forgot to update yesterday. we actually hit 2k words with this chapter, so it's one of the longest updates i've ever done. hopefully that makes up for the lack of update yesterday!
> 
> the song bucky sings is "every day of my life" by frank sinatra and harry james.


	25. (16) big sister nat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just fyi, if there's a "16" in the title of any chapter, that means that the chapter is part of the "steve is 16 years old" au.
> 
> this chapter is based on a comment by Mimi_Sardinia, who suggested big sister nat hanging around SHIELD to keep steve safe. i hope this lives up to expectations!

Natasha knew, logically, that Steve didn’t need protecting. He’d led soldiers into battlefields and watched them die, he’d seen Nazi atrocities up close, he’d shot men dead before he’d even had his first kiss. Steve wasn’t even old enough to drive yet, but he’d likely seen horrors that most people could never even comprehend. He didn’t need to be coddled.

And yet…

And yet he was _sixteen_. If the universe were just, Steve would be in high school, not leading the Avengers. They couldn’t do it without him, that was for certain, but every time Natasha saw him pull on his Captain America façade, she had to wonder if it might be better to let the world burn than let a sixteen year old risk his life for them.

SHIELD didn’t have such qualms, Natasha knew. In between chemistry classes and sex ed, Steve was being airdropped into HYDRA bases, going undercover in human trafficking rings, and shaking hands with world leaders on SHIELD’s behalf. Steve never complained, because he was Steve, too good and kind to be working under an organisation like SHIELD. Even when he was coming home with bruises, or bleeding from seven different places, he would just smile and say, “I’m always happy to help.” He definitely meant it, too. He was just that kind of person. Infuriating.

But even if Steve were tired of always being exploited, it wouldn’t have been any good. None of the Avengers, or Coulson, or even Fury could override the Council’s decisions. 

But Natasha could do this.

Whenever Steve was called in to SHIELD, Natasha went with him.

“You’re not the only one who gets to have fun around here,” she’d say. And Steve would raise an eyebrow, but maybe there was just a hint of relief in his eyes.

Steve stopped coming home black and blue. The STRIKE team was useless at watching his six, but Natasha would die to keep him safe. 

Once, the Council pounced on Steve on the rare occasion when she wasn’t around, and sent him on three back-to-back missions. 

“He’s a supersoldier,” they protested. “He’s US government property.”

“He is a _child_ ,” Natasha wanted to tell them. 

But he wasn’t just any child, he was _Steve_. He was the dorky kid who would braid her hair, and listen to Tony ramble for hours, and would never say no whenever someone asked him for help. He was the kid who remembered all of their birthdays, who sketched them when he thought they weren’t looking, who had the brightest smile and the biggest heart. Seeing him soaked to the bone, miserable, hurt, and so tired that he could barely even make it to his bed — well, that just wasn’t acceptable. 

So whatever SHIELD had wanted him for, Natasha hoped it was worth it. Because wherever Steve went, she would follow. Whatever Steve wanted, she would give to him. And if he needed her help to take down SHIELD? Well, there was nothing in the world that she would rather do.


	26. (16) Pepper

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow, i'm so sorry for such a long and unexpected hiatus. february was unexpectedly busy, and of course now the whole world is a mess. I hope you're all doing well, and are safe and healthy. it's a scary time, and unfortunately the country i'm living in is only getting worse by the day. on the bright side, because of new stay home measures and uni being all online now, i have more time to write. silver linings, right?
> 
> self-distance as much as possible and wash your hands, everybody. stay safe!

Pepper tried not to kick her shoes off too hard. After all, it wasn’t her Louboutins’ fault that SI’s Board of Directors were so insufferable to deal with. A hot cup of tea, or even better, a martini, would be so good right about now. Pepper snuck a glance towards Tony’s extensive home bar. They’d just gotten a new bottle of her favourite gin…but it was three in the afternoon. No number of grumpy old men was enough to start day drinking.

Sighing, Pepper padded to the kitchen, resigning herself to a cup of tea instead. If she were lucky, there would still be some of Bruce’s chai left over – 

She stopped. 

Hunched over at the kitchen counter was Steve Rogers, Captain America himself. She straightened immediately, even though Captain Rogers hadn’t even noticed her yet. It was hard not to; his defining characteristic was that he was the greatest war hero who ever lived. And now, she supposed, that he was sixteen. Pepper closed her eyes briefly, and then strode into the kitchen like she’d never had any reservations at all.

She made a beeline for the coffee machine like that had been her intention all along. While she fiddled with it, Captain Rogers casually lad a hand over whatever he’d been doing. Otherwise, he didn’t seem too surprised to see her. Super hearing. Right. That was…freaky.

When the coffee started brewing, Pepper finally turned to face the man – the boy. “Captain Rogers,” she greeted. “Good to finally meet you. I’m Pepper Potts, CEO of Stark Industries. Oh, please sit,” she added when he made to stand.

Captain Rogers sat back down, left hand faux-casually draped over what seemed to be a sketchbook. The history books _had_ said that he was something of an artist, but that particular tidbit tended to take a backseat to the fact that Captain Rogers had singlehandedly saved the lives of nearly 400 men. The thought flitted to mind, whether knowing that Captain Rogers was so young would have only enhanced his hero image or tarnished it.

“Steve, please, Ms Potts,” Captain Rogers said. 

“Then you’ll have to promise to call me Pepper,” she replied. He dipped his head a little in acknowledgement. “Doing a little sketching?” She asked.

Steve looked down at the book hidden beneath his left hand, almost like he’d forgotten about it. “Oh. Yes.”

“Can I take a peek?” 

Steve hesitated for so long that she almost apologised. Just as she opened her mouth to do so, Steve lifted his hand and pushed the sketchbook gently towards her. 

Sergeant Bucky Barnes looked out from the page, mischievous grin playing on his lips. Every detail had been rendered lightly in long, smooth strokes, as if the artist hadn’t needed to try at all to draw him. Pepper stared down at this bright, youthful face, and realised that she’d almost been waiting for him to speak. From across the kitchen counter, Steve was gazing at her, fingers picking at the yellow paint on his pencil. 

“It’s beautiful, Steve,” she said softly. Steve ducked his head, going a little red. 

“Really, this is just wonderful. Have you ever thought about going to art school? They’d accept you in a heartbeat, I’m sure.”

Steve shook his head. “Back then, I was too busy trying not to die,” he said dryly. His eyes darted to her when she let out a startled laugh, and his expression brightened. 

“Well, you certainly can go now. And you don’t have to stick with graphite if you don’t want to. We can get art supplies delivered to the Tower in – “ She stopped, a thought striking her. Steve blinked. 

Between them lay the face of his dead friend. Pepper would bet anything that if she flipped through the rest of the pages, she would only see more ghosts. Just a few months ago, this kid was somewhere in Europe with the friends who would remember him for the rest of their lives. Now he was here, sitting alone in a kitchen that he never used, and every single person he had ever known was dead. Buying him art supplies or tuition wasn’t going to help.

“Have you been to the Met?” Pepper asked instead. Steve shook his head.

“Too expensive for us, back then,” he said, smiling ruefully. “I’ve heard good things, though.”

“Are you free,” Pepper glanced at her StarkPhone. “Tomorrow?”

There was a little furrow between Steve’s eyebrows, 

“Oh, I…I wouldn’t want to take up too much of your time, Ms Potts. I’ve already been assigned an agent to help with my assimilation, and,” he smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’ve been told I’m not quite as good at the twenty first century as I am giving orders on the field.”

Pepper fought back the little spark of rage at whoever that agent thought he was. “Who said anything about assimilation?” She asked, in the lightest tone she could muster. “It’s art, you don’t have to understand any century at all to appreciate it. Besides, you’d be doing me a favour, really. I’ve been waiting years for someone who will go to art galleries with me. Lord knows Tony won’t.”

Steve grinned. He was leaning forward unconsciously to perch on the edge of his seat. For a moment, the lines on his face, more suited to a ninety year old than a teenager, had disappeared, and Pepper had to catch her breath. “Well, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, Ms – Pepper.”

“Not at all.” Just at that moment, her StarkPhone beeped. Pepper groaned, and Steve laughed. He sounded like he’d almost forgotten how. “I have to take this. I’ll see you tomorrow. 9AM?”

“Yes ma’am,” he said, giving her a sloppy two fingered salute unbecoming of his status. Pepper returned the gesture and turned on her heel, already clicking away on her phone. She ignored the messages from the Board of Directors. Instead, she pulled up a list of the permanent exhibitions at the Met, cataloguing them into ones Steve might like or dislike. They’d go as often as Steve liked, she decided. She was no Bucky Barnes or Peggy Carter, but she _was_ Pepper Potts. And if going to the Met made Steve feel better in any way, then she’d go as often as he wanted.


	27. marx brothers bucky edition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow, sorry for going MIA for so long! uni has been kicking my butt lately. i hope you're all keeping safe and well. we're finally going to be allowed outside in my country soon, so i'm excited!
> 
> anyway, here's one of two sequels to the marx brothers drabble i wrote ages ago, inspired by a comment from merry_magpie. it ended up as more angsty than requested but i'm pretty sure angst is the only thing i can write at this point, lol. hope you enjoy!
> 
> the marx brothers quote comes from here:  
> Chico: That's the Jewish neighborhood?  
> Hammer: (pause) Well, we'll Passover that...You're a peach, boy. Now, here is a little peninsula, and, eh, here is a viaduct leading over to the mainland.  
> Chico: Why a duck?  
> Hammer: I'm alright, how are you? I say, here is a little peninsula, and here is a viaduct leading over to the mainland.  
> Chico: Alright, why a duck?  
> Hammer: (pause) I'm not playing "Ask Me Another," I say that's a viaduct.  
> Chico: Alright! Why a duck? Why that...why a duck? Why a no chicken?  
> Hammer: Well, I don't know why a no chicken; I'm a stranger here myself. All I know is that it's a viaduct. You try to cross over there a chicken and you'll find out why a duck.

Mornings in the Tower were remarkably consistent for a life as inconsistent as theirs. 

Nat and Clint would be up at the crack of dawn, same as Steve, and they’d come down for breakfast a half hour after him, after they finished training. Natasha didn’t have a preference for anything as long as it was hot, and Clint usually favoured something sweet. 

Thor and Bruce usually came down at around the same time. Bruce liked something light, and Thor the exact opposite. 

Tony was a bit of a wild card; sometimes he’d be in the kitchen even before Steve, hunched over his coffee in pitch darkness like a gremlin. Other times they wouldn’t see neither hair nor hide of him for days until Steve forcefully dragged him out of his lab. The one and only time he was up at a normal hour, they’d stared at him in disbelief until he complained.

Somehow, by some sort of divine intervention, Bucky fit in to all of this seamlessly. He never said or interacted with the others much, sure, but he’d sit next to Steve at the table, and he’d do his crosswords while everyone else bickered. Sometimes Steve could tell he was listening in, too, and those were the times when he felt dangerously hopeful. Even though there wasn’t much progress in any other sense. Even though there wasn’t any sign that Bucky was going to ever remember his life before Hydra. As long as Bucky could find some semblance of happiness after all that had happened to him, Steve would take it. 

Which all led to right now, Clint passionately explaining the cinematic brilliance of some movie called Sky Sharks, while Bucky worked on a crossword next to him.

“…these sharks that have missiles built into them, which, do I even have to explain why that’s better than anything Citizen Kane has done?” 

Steve rubbed at his forehead. “So why is it called Sky Sharks?”

“Because they can fly. And they’re piloted by zombie Nazis.”

Bucky tapped his shoulder, and Steve might’ve been a little too glad to take that out. 

“You need anything?” He asked Bucky quietly. Bucky showed him his crossword, which was almost filled out save for 13 horizontal. Steve squinted at it.

“What’s a seven letter word for a series of bridges?” He read aloud.

“There’s a word for that?” Clint asked, having failed in his mission to convince Thor and Bruce about the virtues of Sky Sharks.

“Maybe viaduct?” Steve suggested.

Beside him, Bucky sat up in his chair and frowned. “Why a duck?” He asked, almost to himself, though he didn’t even seem to know why.

“Say that again?” Steve said, his voice a little too strained to be normal. 

Bucky stared at him for a while, like he was trying to parse out the trap. “…why a duck?” He said. 

“Why a chicken?” Steve said. Bucky furrowed his brows, thinking, until finally his expression cleared and Steve knew he understood. A smile spread across Steve’s face, unbidden, and Bucky’s eyes crinkled a little at the corners seeing it.

“I haven’t had enough coffee to deal with this yet,” Tony said, and made a beeline for the machine. 

“Steve, are you all right?” Bruce said. 

“I’m fine,” Steve said. He couldn’t seem to stop smiling. “Everything’s all right, now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes, Sky Sharks is a real movie, and from the trailer i think it's got to be a great one.  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tOqDotvCj2U  
> (#notspon)


	28. marx brothers nat and coulson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> long time no see! this is based on the second part of merry_magpie's prompt, where someone unexpected is a fan of the Marx brothers. i gave away who it is in the title, but hope you enjoy anyway! stay safe everybody, if you're protesting use water not milk, and don't talk about the protest to anyone in case they're a cop.
> 
> also, i made a note in the summary that you can just assume that steve is 16 in all the chapters now, it doesn't make much of a difference either way. i'm going to stop adding the "(16)" to all chapters where his age doesn't play a role in the story, simply because the chapter titles are getting messy and there's a "(16)" in basically every chapter anyway so what does it matter? but if you want to read the whole fic as steve being 16, go right on ahead, i'm probably doing the same. at some point i might just change the whole fic to be a steve being 16 au, or start a new fic for that, i don't know. suggestions are welcome as always.

“Where have _you_ been?” Natasha asked. Steve froze from where he’d been ducking through the doorway and waved sheepishly at them. 

“Hi, Nat, Agent,” he greeted. He had a manila folder under his arm, which could only mean that he was headed to a meeting with Fury on mission reports.

“Sucks,” she said, nodding towards the folder.

Steve shrugged. “It’s all right. Not worse than anything else I’ve done.”

Natasha grinned at him. “ _Who’s strong and brave, here to save the American way?_ ”

“Jokes on you,” Steve said, scowling at her. “I think the girls did a great job on that song.”

Natasha raised an eyebrow. “Not what I meant,” she said. “The girls are _not_ what’s wrong with that.”

“Sorry,” Steve said, looking just a little sheepish. 

“You must’ve been close to them, right?” Coulson interrupted, hands clasped together earnestly. Natasha scoffed; Steve didn’t seem to notice.

“Of course,” he said, cheering up. “We spent almost every waking moment together for months. They practically became my sisters during that time.” Steve glanced at Natasha, suddenly looking horrifying apologetic. If she were a lesser woman, she might have pinched his cheeks. “I’m sorry if I seemed defensive. People didn’t think too highly of the girls during my time, and they’d say terrible things.” He wrinkled his nose. “Which was absurd, of course. Women weren’t allowed to fight in the war, then, and the girls weren’t qualified to be nurses, so they did what they could. They kept morale up among the guys, which makes ‘em more important than most of the women criticising them.”

“Absolutely,” Coulson said, eyes wide and admiring. Natasha, having been subject to many of Steve’s justice and righteousness rants, rolled her eyes at Coulson.

“So why weren’t they thought highly of?”She asked.

Steve made a face that was so quintessentially Brooklyn that Natasha almost laughed. “It’s ‘cause they were pin-up girls, is all,” he said.

“But have you ever been able to pin one down?” Coulson blurted out. Natasha was halfway through sending Coulson the most disgusted look she could muster when Steve started.

“Is that a Marx brothers reference?” He asked, clearly stunned. “I hadn’t thought people nowadays still liked them.”

“We don’t,” Natasha said, and was ignored.

“Yes, I…used to quite like the Marx brothers, when I was younger,” Coulson said

“Really?” The smile on Steve’s face was bright enough to rival the sun, and Natasha watched as Coulson grinned back, helpless in the face of Steve’s enthusiasm. “I loved them too!”

“What a coincidence,” Natasha said. Coulson shot her a poisonous glare, but she ignored him. “Who would’ve thought you two had so much in common?”

Steve shot her a look, clearly sensing that there was some secret conversation he wasn’t privy to. Natasha smiled sweetly at him, and he narrowed his eyes.

“I’ve gotta go,” Steve said finally, dragging his gaze from Natasha to smile apologetically at Coulson. “Fury wanted me five minutes ago.”

“Yeah, no, of course,” Coulson said, and Natasha snorted.

She waited until Steve had wandered off before sneaking a glance at Coulson. “Did you also collect baseball cards because Captain America might’ve liked the Dodgers?” She asked, delighting in the way he stiffened. 

“For the record, I was a _kid_ ,” he said, pretending that his neck wasn’t turning a suspicious shade of red.

“Sure,” Natasha said. “They’re not his favourite team, by the way.”

Coulson looked at her. “I suppose you’re not willing to share?” 

She inspected her nails for a moment, and sighed.

“One month,” he said. “I’ll do your paperwork for one month.”

“Two.”

“You’re a menace, Ms. Romanoff.”

“I know.”


	29. (16) self-esteem

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> double update cause i feel guilty for not updating for so long. if you can guess where i blatantly ripped off this idea from, stream percy jackson when it comes out on disney plus. i just finished the last olympian and cried
> 
> turns out this is a reupload of chapter 20, oops. thanks for bringing it to my attention!
> 
> 20/1/2020:  
> so my fever came back haha :(  
> sorry that this isn’t another chapter for the deaged fic, i know a lot of you guys were looking forward to more deaged antics but tbh it’s getting hard for me to write happy stuff when i feel like death lol  
> thanks for all your patience tho! we finally have a fic that broke 1k words!! i'll start replying to comments again when i feel 100% better (hopefully soon)
> 
> could be read as part of the 16 verse, but it doesn't really matter

After the whole Loki debacle, Steve does what he’s never done before, and he runs.

He gets a motorcycle, a sketchbook, and one of those credit card things he doesn’t fully understand. Then he takes off across the country. He lets himself feel lost, because being lost in a new state is entirely different from being lost in a new century; and he lets himself feel lonely, because being lonely in a motel room in the middle of nowhere is entirely different from being lonely because everyone he’s ever known is dead. 

At night, he draws some, because it’s hard to sleep nowadays. He fills three sketchbooks with ghosts of the people and the things he used to love. 

Sometimes he does sleep, though, forced against his will by his body’s limitations. And in his dreams, he sees…

His ma, withering away before his eyes, silent except for the accusatory look in her eyes: _Everyone was right. I wish I’d never had you._

Army doctors brandishing syringes, saying, _Come on, son, won’t you do this for your country?_ , pushing at him, cutting into him, until he splits into two and only Arctic water rushes out.

Reaching for Bucky, the distance between them smaller and smaller until their hands just barely brush against each other — and then Bucky falling, falling, falling.

He’ll wake up, drenched in the cobwebs of his nightmares (or memories), and he’ll wonder if he’s really in the future if the past won’t leave him alone.

There has to be something wrong with him, Steve knows. What his pa had, what Mr Barnes had, the condition that everyone had known about but were never allowed to say.

He won’t go to SHIELD, because he’s not an idiot. He can deal with it on his own. He’s supposed to be a supersoldier, enhanced in every way; in his veins runs the serum that men have died for. He can do this by himself, because if he can’t…if he can’t, they’ll leave him behind like the rest of the 1940s. And then Steve will have nothing.

*

Steve wakes up in the hospital.

For a second he panics. He doesn’t know where his teammates are or how they’re doing, he doesn’t remember much of what landed him in the hospital in the first place, and for all he knows this could be another 70 years in the future (please, please, please no). Then his eyes come into focus, and he sees the massive, sloppy ‘2020’ cutout on the ceiling above his head.

Huh. Well that solves one problem.

Steve wiggles his fingers and toes, to make sure he still has them, and then looks around the room. All his teammates are there. Steve has a brief moment of worry — if they’re at the hospital, then that must mean that they’ve gotten injured too. But try as he might, he can’t see any visible injuries on any of them. Steve furrows his brow. So why are they here?

Steve tries to sit up a little to see better, just in case he missed something big, and accidentally catches Tony’s eye. For a second they stare at each other in shocked silence, and then Tony yells, “You!”

The other Avengers lurch to consciousness, and Steve winces when he sees the dark circles beneath their eyes. He frowns at Tony, wants to tell him off for waking their teammates when they clearly need the rest, and finds that his throat has the texture of sandpaper. Bruce notices, and is by his side immediately with a cup of ice chips.

“You are just — ” Tony continues, and then stops, for once at a loss for words. “You’re just…”

“You scared us, Steve,” Natasha cuts in smoothly, saving Tony from his misery.

“Sorry,” Steve says, even though he still doesn’t really know what’s going on.

“You were nearly crushed by the sky while we fought Atlas,” Thor tells him. His usually bright blue eyes are stormy, and Steve swears he can smell ozone. 

Atlas…oh. Right. They’d been called in to talk down the rebelling Titan, only to find that he had already left his post and trapped a god under his burden. So Steve had done the only thing he was good for: using the muscles the serum gave him to hold up the sky. 

“And Atlas?”

“Back where he belongs,” Clint says. “Holding up the sky again.”

That means that the mission had gone well, then. So why do his teammates still look so unhappy?

“You,” Tony points at Steve. “Clearly want me to die!”

“I don’t!” Steve responds immediately, eyes widening. Tony made no sense on the best of days, but this was seriously something else.

“Well if you didn’t, then you wouldn’t _do_ stuff like this to me all the time!”

“Do what?”

Maybe it’s the genuine bewilderment on Steve’s face that gets Tony even more riled up, because he yells, ”Almost _die_ every mission!”

Natasha, watching Steve get more and more confused, says, “Steve. You know we’d be upset if you died, right?”

That question just completely throws him for a loop, frankly. He is, at least, gratified to know that everyone else seems just as shocked as he is.

“Uh, yeah?” Steve says, because he knows it’s the right answer. 

Natasha’s eyes narrow. “Do you actually know, or are you just saying that?”

Steve kind of wishes he were back in the trenches. At least in the middle of war, nobody had time to grill him on _feelings_.

“Come on, Natasha, let the poor guy rest.” Bruce smiles at him, and Steve is so relieved that he doesn’t even put up a token protest. 

Thor fusses over his pillows like he might’ve once done for another younger brother, while the rest of his teammates settle back into their seats.

“Who did the arts and crafts?” Steve mumbles, fighting sleep, and gestures to the ‘2020’ sign.

“All of us,” Tony says. “Now go to sleep already. We’ll still be here when you wake up.”


	30. family is a six letter word (i)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the first parts of a prompt from a guest reviewer! sorry i've been mia, it's just been...yeah. anyway, hope you're all doing well, that you're staying safe, and of course that you enjoy!
> 
> "I really love this idea! It seems like Tony has declared himself Steve's dad. I hope to see anything of the team like, not babying him? Or being condescending, but still treating him like the kid he is? Helping him have child experiences. Like, Nat didn't have a childhood really, so her taking him to do things, or them feeding him more, making sure he's warm enough, showing him how things work."

driving -- Tony

“You still don’t have your license?” Tony frowned. “I thought I heard stories about you hijacking cars in Europe to save kittens or something.”

“No one was checking for my license while we were getting shot at,” Steve said dryly. “Besides, I don’t see why it’s such a big deal. I don’t drive anymore. And I have a motorcycle license.”

Tony scoffed. “Every teenage boy should know how to drive! It’s step one to making out with cute girls in the backseat.” He paused. “Or cute guys.”  
Steve turned a delightful shade of red. “I don’t date, Tony,” he said, choosing to ignore everything else. It was a good move. Even Tony had to admit that sometimes ignoring him saved everyone a good amount of time and headache.

“Well, maybe you would date if you could drive,” Tony said. He strode off towards the elevator, leaving Steve to scramble after him. “It’s a coming of age ceremony! Shows you’re growing up.”“I’m taller than you,” Steve replied. “Not sure how much more growing I can do.”

Tony glared at him, and Steve widened his blue eyes innocently. 

“Seriously, Tony,” he said, sobering. “I appreciate the effort, but I don’t see why this is such a big deal. I don’t really need to drive, or SHIELD would’ve arranged for lessons already.”

Tony looked at Steve, looking more boyish than ever with the new haircut Natasha made him get. None of them had particularly great childhoods, but they were all grown up already. They’d had time to get over their cruddy childhoods (for the most part). Steve was still a kid. But he’d never get the chance to go to a real high school and make normal friends, he’d never get to stress about college applications or get detention, he’d never get to hug his mom in the mornings ever again. Steve’s dad was never going to get to teach him how to drive. Tony might not have had a great childhood, and he sure as hell wasn’t Steve’s dad, but, well. He could do this, at least. 

“Well, Natasha told me about this lovely barista at the café downstairs,” Tony said instead. Steve tipped his head back and groaned with such agony that it made Tony cackle. “She’s only a little older than you, and I bet she’d appreciate a guy who knows how to drive.”

Steve had gone beet red again. But when he slid into the passenger’s seat beside Tony, there was something in his gaze that made Tony wonder if Steve knew a little more than he was letting on. 

*

apple pie -- bruce

Unlike the other members of the Avengers, Bruce actually liked hanging out on the common floor. Even though it looked exactly the same as his personal floor, it just felt different. Mjolnir was usually in some inconvenient place, (some of) Clint and Natasha’s weapons would be dumped unceremoniously on the dining table after missions, all the electronics would have inexplicable updates thanks to Tony, and whichever books Steve were reading at the moment would usually be stacked neatly on the coffee table. The part of Bruce that was too self-reflective for his own good would probably say that the common floor offered a physical reminder that all of this was real, that his friends were here and usually only a short distance away, that he’d been alone for so long that he would take any way to not be alone any more. The other part of Bruce viciously denied all of the above.

Nonetheless, the fact remained that Bruce spent the vast majority of his time, wherever possible, on the common floor. So when he returned from the labs, it was the common floor that he headed to, not his own. And so it was he who found Steve on the floor, papers and holograms of what looked like recipe blogs splayed around him.

“Need any help?” Bruce asked gently. It was a testament to how engrossed Steve was that he jumped at the sound of Bruce’s voice. 

“Just…looking for an old recipe,” the boy said, and tried to smile. “It’s not that important.”

“Seems pretty important to me,” Bruce said, inclining his head slightly towards the mess of files around the boy. Steve faltered for a second, looking around.

“Sorry,” he said, missing the point entirely. “I can clean it up, just give me a second.”

“I meant that I can help you look, if you want,” Bruce said. Steve blinked up at him.

“I wouldn’t want to waste your time,” he said, already gathering up his things. For someone so tall and so broad, Steve never really took up much space. Sometimes it seemed like the post-serum Steve didn’t really exist; that there was only the skinny, small guy who was used to not being wanted.

“If it’s important to you, then it wouldn’t be a waste of my time,” Bruce told him. 

“…oh.”

“So,” Bruce made his way over to Steve and gently tugged the papers out of his hand. “What are we looking for?”

“My mom’s apple pie recipe,” Steve said. His face was a little pink, but his lips were curved into the smallest, gentlest smile Bruce had ever seen. “I never managed to get the recipe from her before she passed, so I thought maybe JARVIS would be able to find something close enough.” He shrugged nonchalantly, but his shoulders were stiff. Sarah Rogers had been dead for over eighty years by that point, but for Steve it had only been nine. And all he had of her was a gravestone, and the drawings that he did of everyone he’d lost. If Steve wanted his mom’s apple pie, Bruce vowed, by god he was going to get it. 

“I’ve done a fair bit of baking,” Bruce said. “And Tony won’t care how many pies we bake as long as he gets some too. If we can’t find the exact recipe as is, I’m sure we’ll be able to Frankenstein something that Mrs. Rogers would be proud of.”

Steve beamed at him. If his eyes were a little wet, neither of them mentioned it.


	31. steve as the winter soldier pt. 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> originally this au was going to be a little longer, following steve getting captured and bucky raising hell to bring him back, more recovery stuff, etc. etc. but i started really dreading writing this fic (among others), and i thought it better to end it here. funnily enough i really did enjoy writing this chapter after i decided that it would be the last! so here is the final part to the winter soldier steve au. i have it titled on word as "no buddy quite so true", from frank sinatra's song "my buddy", with the intention of bringing that song into the fic somehow. and then i totally forgot. so.

“What’s your plan for taking down HYDRA?” James demanded. He gave his fiercest glare to the hologram of Nick Fury in the living room, but all Fury did was flip over a page, not even deigning to look up. James crossed and uncrossed his arms. Usually he’d take care to play by SHIELD’s rules, never letting anyone (especially not SHIELD) know his true emotions, but he couldn’t. Not right now.

“Well, first you and Romanoff were supposed to find out who the Winter Soldier was,” Fury said finally.

“Romanoff already did that.”

“No thanks to you.”

James stopped his pacing and turned to look at Fury. The man now had his hands linked on top of his desk, his one eye seeing far more than James wanted him to.

“So it’s true, then,” Fury said. “The Winter Soldier is Steve Rogers.”

“It wasn’t his fault,” James said, his first instinct always being to defend Steve.

“And he doesn’t remember a thing,” Fury continued, ignoring James.

“We think HYDRA wiped his memories, tortured him and brainwashed him to make him obey.” James clenched his fists. “Steve would never willingly do any of that. We have to get him his memories back.”

“Oh, we _have_ to, do we?”

James looked up.

“You might feel that the Winter Soldier is someone to be saved, given that you knew him before he became HYDRA’s most valuable asset and murdered hundreds, maybe thousands of good people, but not everyone does.”

“You think it’s his fault.”

“No. But certainly enough people at SHIELD do, including the Council. Don’t forget that HYDRA’s main opposition is SHIELD. There are people here who know someone that the Winter Soldier has killed.”

James stilled. He looked Fury in the eye, the other man as impassive as Steve just a few rooms away. The only difference was that Fury had a choice. “So you won’t help us.”

Fury spread his hands wide. “My hands are tied.”

James bit his tongue so he wouldn’t say anything stupid, and swiped his hand through the hologram to end the connection. It had been easy, too easy, to dismiss all the people that Steve – that HYDRA had killed as just names on a page, but the reminder that they had friends, family, some working at SHIELD…James sank to the floor and put his head in his hands. He’d promised to be with Steve till the end of the line, and he meant it still. He meant it always. Even if he had to do it alone.

*

Romanoff tilted her head a little when James re-entered the room, and he took it as a cue to stand beside her. Steve, still perched on Tony’s lab table, looked up sharply and relaxed when he saw James. This was the second time now that he’d run out of the room in front of Steve, and the realisation made him guilty.

“Bruce said everything looks fine so far,” Romanoff said lowly. He didn’t respond. “The Sol—Steve was really upset earlier when you left. Or I assume he was upset, all of his facial expressions look the same.”

“SHIELD doesn’t want to help,” James responded. Romanoff didn’t move, but James could tell that she was not expecting that. A few meters away, Bruce was softly talking Steve into letting him take a blood sample. To James’ surprise, Steve let him take the sample without any resistance, though whether that was because of Bruce’s skill as a doctor or Steve’s willingness to defer to authority, James didn’t know. 

“They might come around. They kind of have a habit of picking up strays,” she offered. “Just look at me and Barton.”

“It’s different for Steve. Fury said,” James swallowed. “He said that HYDRA had used Steve to kill SHIELD people. The Council doesn’t want to help, and you know what happens when they make up their mind.”

Romanoff shot him a look, considering. “What is it exactly that you want SHIELD to do here?”

“I don’t know. I have no idea. There’s so much – someone who can get him back his memories, some therapy, probably, someone to fix his arm, people to take down HYDRA. Undoing what HYDRA’s done…it’s not something that I can do by myself.”

“Look.” Romanoff nudged James gently with her shoulder, and he turned his head a little to look at her. Steve glanced over, Bruce and Tony distracted with running tests on the blood sample. “This isn’t the first time I’ve interacted with the Soldier. Last time he put a bullet through my gut. I don’t trust him by any means, and I’m not interested in taking him in and picking out the fleas from his fur. But I trust your judgement, and so does Clint, and Thor, and all the rest of us. Everything that you mentioned is stuff that we don’t need SHIELD to do, so whatever else you need,” she shrugged. “We’ll be here.”

James swallowed around the sudden lump in his throat, and managed to smile at her. “Thank you, Natasha. That means a lot to me.”

She shrugged, lips curved into that famous Black Widow smile, and loped off to bother Tony and Bruce. Steve met his gaze from across the room, curiosity sparkling beneath the blue in his eyes. James smiled at him, walking over, and he could’ve sworn that Steve almost smiled back.

“I think we’ve just about finished here,” Bruce said. He looked up from where he was putting away his tools and smiled at James. 

“So what’s the diagnosis, Doc?” James asked, feigning nonchalance. Steve was messing with his rapidly healing puncture mark almost absent-mindedly, and James reached out on instinct to stop him. Steve had always done stuff like that, peeling and picking at scabs, messing with hangnails and open wounds. It was almost like the reminder of his own fallibility fascinated him. And could anyone really blame him? Steve was so bright and so alive that sometimes, even James couldn’t believe he was just human. 

“Everything looks pretty good on my end,” Bruce said. “At least when comparing his stats to yours. We’ll have to do a brain scan at some point, with an _actual_ doctor, but the fact that you said he can remember some things here and there is a good sign. Also, you really could eat more,” he said to Steve. Steve started, and half-nodded, looking to James with huge eyes.

“We’ll work on that,” James said. “Tony?”

“Well, the arm is a flaming hot pile of garbage,” Tony said cheerfully. “But other than that it’s great!”

James frowned. Beside him, Steve’s expression matched his. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that everything they could’ve possibly done wrong, they did,” Tony said. “The biggest issue is that the arm is way too heavy, and it’s not really connected right to your best bud’s shoulder here. They could’ve gotten better results with _superglue_.”

James exchanged a glance with Steve. Steve leaned in closer to James and whispered, like he was afraid of getting caught, “The Arm is functional and at 56%.”

“If you think that’s a good percentage, boy do I have news for you,” Tony admonished. Steve jumped, and before James even knew what he was doing, he had positioned himself in between the two. Romanoff swiped at Tony’s head and he ducked.

“Sorry! I’m just saying, HY—Demented Octopus have terrible tech and they should be ashamed of themselves. For a lot of things, but mostly the tech.”

“So…” James’ right hand was mere inches from Steve’s metal one, and the reminder of his worst failure made him uneasy. “What do we do?”

"Well, it won’t be easy, but I could fix it," Tony said, pretending to look through some holograms. James wasn’t exactly good at Stark technology on the best of days, but even he could tell that a grocery list had nothing to do with Steve. Or maybe it did. Stark made about as much sense as his tech did.

James stared at him. "What?" He said.

"I could fix it," Tony repeated. "Your age is catching up to you, Cap."

James rolled his eyes. "I heard you the first time, I just can't believe you're offering."

"Well, of course I'm offering. Can't pass up the chance to one-up the old Octopus.”

James turned at look at Steve, who stared uncertainly back.

“We’ll think about it,” James said finally. Stark shrugged. 

“Take your time,” he said. “SI’s always on my ass about something or other, but I’m sure I can make some time for the elderly. Charity work is good PR, you know.”

James shot him an obscene gesture, and Tony cackled. 

*

“So Bruce says you seem biologically good,” James said. He had a hand on Steve’s elbow, technically fulfilling the requirements to escort Steve back to his cell. “We can get you some more food, no problem. Back then you’d always refuse extra portions even at the risk of meetin’ God early, ‘cause you worried about me, but now there’s more food in the Tower than anyone could ever finish. Except for Thor, but that guy’s an anomaly. You’ve never met him but he’s nice. He’s a good guy. He’s a demigod, by the way.”

Steve shot him an incredulous look, and James laughed, bright and open. Steve’s eyes crinkled at the sides.

“He’s a little eccentric, but I think you’d get along. Maybe. And Tony said he could fix your arm – you don’t have to if you don’t want to, but if you want to, then we have that option. Which is good! You don’t have to, though. No matter what Tony says. He’s stubborn and thinks he knows better than everyone else but he means well. If he bothers you about it I’ll sic Romanoff on him, no questions asked.” 

They stopped at Steve’s door, and James stopped to unlock it. Once inside, Steve began his meticulous routine of sweeping his room five times over till he was satisfied. He did this every time he re-entered his room, even if he’d only stepped out past the doorframe. James could probably recite Steve’s routine backwards in his sleep by this point, so he leaned against the doorjamb and kept talking, waiting for Steve to give him the okay to come in.

The last part of Steve’s routine was to check through the toiletries stacked up on the tiny sink. Steve had just set down the mini shampoo bottle, James already straightening expectantly, when Steve made a beeline for his bed instead of him.

“What’s wrong?” James asked immediately, going rigid. His body was telling him to _get over there already, what if Steve needs you?_. But Steve hadn’t given him the okay yet. “Steve?”

Steve waved him in impatiently, and James rushed to his side. Steve had lifted up his mattress, rummaging through the contents hidden below it, and James eyed the mess. There was a copy of Steve’s favourite book, his sketchbook and pencil, and a stockpile of non-perishable foods. 

“Need a hand there, buddy?” James tried. He couldn’t tell what Steve was looking for until the other man turned around triumphantly, brandishing a familiar yellow file. James’ throat closed up. James had handed that crisp file to him however long ago, seventy years worth of horrors hidden within. Now it was wrinkled at the edges, thumbed through. 

Steve turned it around in his hands, gazing down at it with an unreadable expression on his face. Almost his whole life was written in that file. Steve looked up, and there was steel in his gaze again instead of nothingness.

“You don’t have to,” James said immediately. “It’s your choice. It’s always your choice.”

Steve gave him a very familiar look, one that spoke of fondness and exasperation and two boys wreaking havoc on a city that no longer existed. And he shoved the file into Bucky’s hands.

Bucky stared down at it, momentarily speechless. There was a blossoming, unfurling warmth in his chest, as bright and golden as Steve himself. Love, Bucky realised. It was love.

“Thank you,” he whispered, tilting his head up to meet Steve’s gaze. There were a hundred million words in that phrase that Bucky would never be able to articulate, but Steve smiled, and Bucky knew he heard it all.

**Author's Note:**

> please give CC if you can! i'm really trying to get better as a writer.


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